Finders Keepers
by TraSan
Summary: There are some people who just never learned it isn't nice to take things that don't belong to them. Dark fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **Well, they aren't in my possession, so I guess they don't belong to me.

**Beta'd: **By Carocali. I have no idea how she fit me into her crazy schedule right now, but she did and I am grateful. Thanks, girl!

_Special thanks to Phx without whose encouragement to post, this story would have languished in my folder of misfit fics._

**Warning: **This isn't the darkest fic I've ever read and certainly mild by comparison to some. However, it is definitely the darkest story I've ever written and may be unsuitable for some readers. One thing is always true, I never break the boys more than I can fix.

_Nana, I'm so sorry. Chapter three of 'Lady of the Autumn Wood' is two-thirds finished, but this fic literally ate my brain on Sunday. I'm working on it now, though!_

………………………………………………………….**Chapter One**…………………………………………………………..

If it was cold, Sam didn't notice anymore. He'd lost track of the days or hours, he really didn't know which, during the long stretches of sensory deprivation. Not a single ray of light filled the stone cell, no sounds penetrated the block of solitude in which he found himself. The metal cuffs chaffed his wrists and ankles raw and he couldn't move without feeling some amount of pain. Not that his ribs weren't throbbing, or the welts on his back, but for some reason it was the shackles and their humiliating confinement that bothered him the most.

A bang in the dark caused him to startle, chains rattling before stilling once more. His breath stuttered in his chest. _They _were coming back.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"I don't care what Rufus thinks, Sam isn't dead and he didn't just decide to run away," Dean said. "I know my brother, Bobby, and he was his normal, broody self when he left here. He wasn't getting ready to take off. Besides he left his computer, no way Sam left that behind."

"_Calm down, Dean. I was just passing along what Rufus said. The damn fool hasn't turned up anything, so he thinks Sam is underground. If that were the case, you'd have found him by now. Kid never could hide from you for long."_

Dean stopped pacing the small motel room and scrubbed a hand down his face. The unshaven stubble had changed into a full out beard over the last ten days and Dean couldn't bring himself to care. "No, he can't and believe me, Bobby, I've looked." He strode to the window, lifting the curtain and willed his brother to walk across the parking lot for the hundredth time. He sighed as unrealistic hope fled, dropping the heavy drape back into place.

"_Let's go over it again." _Rustling papers came through the phone line, followed by the distinctive hiss of a beer being uncapped. _"You guys weren't working on anything in particular?"_

"No, we were stopped for the night on our way to you. You know this already, I don't see how this helps!" Dean's impotent frustration leaked through the airwaves to Bobby.

"_Boy, I'm trying to help. We're running out of ideas and the only thing I got left is to start at the beginning."_

"I know." Dean flopped onto the bed, letting his head fall nearly to his knees. "I just don't know what to do. I need to find Sam."

"_We will."_

"We have to."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Clammy hands, smooth, unwanted icicle fingers traced the crisscrossing lines of welts on his bare back. Sam shivered, the shackles burning fresh against tender skin. He vowed he wouldn't talk to them anymore because they always found a way to twist his words and use it against him. He bit his lower lip to keep from protesting when one of the fingers slipped under his waistband following a puffy trail.

The touching stopped and a feathery light whisper, cool air on his neck and ear caused another shiver. _"He's not coming for you."_

Sam swallowed hard. He was afraid, deeply afraid they spoke the truth. Not that he believed Dean had stopped trying to find him, but that he couldn't. Even Dean wasn't a superhero, no matter what he'd believed when he was four.

A hand caressed his cheek almost lovingly, then moved to card through his already too long hair, pushing it behind his ear. The voice was back, playfully cutting into Sam's hope, what little of it there was left. _"He's not even in town anymore. He's gone."_

Sam searched the inky blackness hoping he could glimpse his tormentors, but like all the other times before, they were perfectly masked in darkness. He pulled his chest tighter to his knees, hoping to deny them access. Laughter came from all around him, two, maybe three voices. The scent of mold and his own stink filled his nostrils. He wanted out, now, and he lashed out with his fists and his feet, knowing that he'd never be able to hit anyone. He never could, the leash they kept him on was too short.

Small pants of exertion escaped as he fought the losing battle. He felt better when he tried to do something than he did the times he let them beat down his spirit like a disobedient puppy. Finally, spent, he collapsed in on himself, curling up into as small of a space as he could manage to squeeze his tall frame. The laughter stopped and someone softly petted the back of his head. _"We were going to feed you, but maybe that's a bad idea."_

Sam's traitorous stomach gurgled at the mention of food even as his throat constricted in rebellion as he gagged. There was something about not being able to see what you were eating or drinking that made even that simple act terrifying in its own way.

"_Gertie, the boy needs to eat if you want to keep him around for awhile. He's not a toy, he's a pet."_

Sam cringed at the label.

"_You're right, dear, you always are."_

A plate was thrust into his hand, a cup into the other. He drank greedily, saving half of the water by sheer willpower. Sam wasn't sure he was hungry, but he was incredibly thirsty. He fumbled blindly with the stone-cold food on the plate, hesitantly sniffing a piece of meat. It smelled bloody and fresh, and not at all like something he should put in his mouth, but he hadn't eaten in a long time and if an opportunity for escape presented itself, he had to be strong enough to take it.

The gelatinous blob of meat took awhile to chew and he wished desperately for another cup of water so he could wash it down with the remaining liquid and still have more for later. Dry swallowing the chunk of protein, Sam gasped, fighting the urge to vomit.

"_Do you remember the little girl?"_

Of course, he remembered. Sam had reassured the freckled girl in brown pigtails that he would find her cat. It had disappeared into a deserted, ramshackle house on his route to the library and he couldn't let the youngster go into somewhere so dangerous. There was any number of ways to get hurt in a building that was falling apart. He hadn't counted on the Schmidts.

"_We found her cat."_

Sam lost the battle.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"_I think you should retrace Sam's steps that morning."_

"I've already done that." Dean wanted to smash, break, and destroy something, anything.

"_I know, but you did it looking for clues to what happened to your brother."_

"As opposed to?"

"_Looking at everything the way Sam would have."_

Dean let out a long breath, trying to restore a semblance of calm. It didn't work. "I'll give it shot. At this point, I'm willing to try anything."

"_I know you are, kid. Give me a call when you get back."_

"Will do."

Dean snapped his phone closed, tucked his gun and the lock pick set into his coat out of sheer habit and headed out the door. The sun sparkled gaily in the warm, spring afternoon. In the distance, he heard children laughing as they played and all around him people went about their business. Dean hated the normal world for a split second and all the people in it who were oblivious to the dangers lurking in the dark. There was something so wrong with their lives continuing on as if nothing was wrong when his was falling apart.

He turned left onto Euclid, heading for the library. The big dog on the corner came to meet him at the fence and he stopped to scratch it behind the ears. Sam couldn't resist dogs, he would have stopped, maybe looked around while he did it, enjoying the moment for what it was.

That's when Dean saw her, a small girl in braids preparing to sneak into the rundown house across the street. The search for his brother would have to wait. Dilapidated houses were no place for anyone, more or less a young child.

"Hey!" he shouted, waving a hand at her as he crossed the street.

She looked scared for a moment, obviously she knew she shouldn't be going in the house. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she announced by way of greeting.

"I'll bet you're not supposed to go into that house either," he said, smiling a little when she dropped her gaze. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him, "but I saw Nibbles go into the house and I'm worried about her."

Dean's jaw clicked. He didn't want to spend time looking for this girl's cat, but he just couldn't let her go inside and somehow he knew she would the minute he was gone. "Tell you what, you wait out here and I'll go find her."

"That's what the other man said," the girl said. "He never found her and it's been days and days."

"What other man?" Dean asked, his tone more desperate than he would care to admit. He didn't want to scare the girl off.

"I dunno, the other one," she said, with a shoulder shrug.

"Look, uh…"

"Shelly."

"Look, Shelly, this is important." Dean crouched down to be eye level with the girl. "What did he look like?"

"Um, he was tall." Her eyes opened wide as she remembered. "Taller than even you!"

"What else?" Dean asked, being careful not to coach her responses. A delay in the truth would only send him on a wild goose chase.

"He had lots of hair and nice eyes." Shelly nodded. "Like yours."

"Nice, like green?"

"No, like _he _was nice," Shelly said, her tone indicating she thought Dean was an idiot for not realizing what she meant.

"Okay, Shelly, you listen to me very closely," Dean said. "You go home. I'll find your cat, but you aren't to go into this house. Ever."

"Why not?" she asked. Her brown eyes gazed at him suspiciously for the first time.

"Because it's dangerous. Your cat will come home eventually. If you get hurt in here, your parents won't be happy." Dean saw the girl's indecision. He hadn't wanted to do this, but he really needed into the house right now. "Besides, it's haunted."

"Ghosts?" she asked, eyes opening wide. "Spirits who need to see the light?"

Damn Jennifer Love Hewitt and her touchy-feely ghost show. "No, scarier, meaner ones. Now go!"

The little girl startled and ran off crying. Normally he'd feel like a heel for scaring a child, but today he had something more important to worry about. Like why Sam had walked into this house looking for Nibbles and never walked out. Taking a look around and seeing the coast was clear, Dean ducked into the house through the door that was hanging askew.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The belt that used to hold his pants up had long since been removed. It was back, folded in half and running in short paths down his chest. He'd been smacked with it a couple of times already for further soiling his prison with sick, but nothing much yet. He knew it was sure to come though, and his chest heaved with controlled fear. No way to know what would happen or from which direction when you couldn't see.

"_We were wrong, Tim."_

Oh God, Gertie was building up to a psychotic rant. He'd been here before. Sam shook, more from cold than fear. The temperature had plummeted as the Schmidts' anger grew. He didn't know what had set them off this time, but eventually they'd tell him. Last time she'd been convinced Sam had stolen one of her favorite tablecloths. It had cost him bruised ribs and the additional shackles around his ankles that time.

"_It's okay, Gertie, he'll learn."_

Sam pulled on the chains. As usual, they held fast. _Please, Dean._

"_No, I meant about his brother."_

That got Sam's attention and his head shot up. "What about my brother?" he forced out through rusty vocal chords, forgetting all about his vow not to speak.

Hands were back, stroking his hair, a gentle kiss upon his cheek. _"I'm so sorry."_

Tears were instantly on his face, his emotions high and his coping skills worn thread-bare. "No."

"_He tried to find you. He came into the house."_

"_We couldn't let him find you. You belong to us."_

"No."

"_He's a fighter, just like you."_

"_I'm sorry to say, it wasn't quick. He suffered quite a bit."_

"No!"

"_It's okay. Shsh, it's okay." _

A cold finger rested on his parched lips.

"_If you're a good pet, we'll feed you him, instead of the cat next time."_

In a blast of frigid air and the slamming of a door Sam was left alone with his despair.

_TBC_

……………………………………………………………..**Supernatural**……………………………………………………

AN: A couple weeks ago, Phx and I were discussing how unwanted, intimate touches were creepier (and still provided plenty of emotional angst) than a permanently character changing event. We didn't intend to write anything, it was simply a discussion. Of course, give two writers fodder like that and the muse is bound to bite. I don't know if her fic was jump-started by our discussion, but between that and sneak peeks at her fic, I sure was! That's how I ended up on the darkside.

/hides behind rock


	2. Chapter 2

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I'm sure they're happy about it, too.

**Beta'd: **By Carocali. Thank you so much for having patience with me!

_I played quite a bit after she beta'd so any remaining errors are mine alone. Special thanks to Phx for posting courage (I've screwed it to the sticking place. LOL)._

**Warning: **Just a few shadows darker than my normal fare. Good thing we're headed out of the tunnel. For now. :)

……………………………………………………………**Chapter Two**………………………………………………………..

As Dean slowly picked his way through the creaking house looking for Nibbles, he heard muffled conversations and a voice he would recognize anywhere shouting out a denial shortly before a loud, metallic bang came from the basement. Relief flooded his chest and for a few heartbeats he forgot to breathe. He resisted the urge to call out to his brother, instead hoping he might get the jump on whoever had Sam.

He quickly changed his mind when he realized he couldn't see the stairs in the thick darkness. He pulled out his ever-present, small Maglite, shining it through the open doorway. Rickety, wooden stairs led into the basement, the dust on them disturbed only by evidence of something dragged to the basement.

A blast of cold air shot past him, along with a heavy scent of ozone. Great, just great, it wasn't as if he carried a spare shaker of salt in his jacket. If a malevolent spirit had gotten the drop on his brother, it was something to be concerned about.

Dean's hopes fell as he scanned the basement, the meager beam shooting into all corners. Aside from some antique junk, the room was empty. He prowled the area, moving boxes, tossing a rusted bicycle under the stairs, looking for something that would magically tell him where Sam was. He found it, in the form of a metal trap door on the concrete floor.

The old house had a sub-basement.

The door groaned in protest as he opened it, the underside dotted with condensation. Dean covered his nose with his arm, jacket sleeve pressed tight against his nostrils. It smelled of mold, and piss, and sweat down there. Worst of all, the musky scent of fear was undeniable. If Sam was in here – someone was going to pay.

He dropped to his belly, ducking his head into the shallow pit. The flashlight caught a figure huddled in the back corner, face buried in his knees. "Sam," Dean said, his voice barely louder than a reverent prayer. The light flickered, and he stood up, searching for the spirit he'd only guessed at before.

"_Ours."_

"_Can't have him."_

"Actually, he's mine." Dean said, extreme anger causing his voice to quaver. "He's _my_ brother."

"_Finders keepers."_

A breeze shot around him, down into the sub-basement. He held tightly to the metal ring on the trap door to keep it from slamming shut.

"_Losers weepers."_

A slapping sound from the pit had Dean reacting before he could fully register what had happened. "Stay away from him!"

A cold tendril wrapped around Dean's shoulders, a female whisper in his ear. _"He belongs to us."_

Anger boiled in Dean's veins, fury nearly overpowering his good sense. He breathed deeply several times. He needed to keep his head clear if he had any hope of getting Sam out of here. If Sam was in any condition to help, he would have burst through the opening by now, and that did nothing to ease Dean's fears. "Look, I hate to break it to you, but I'm taking him."

A short wisp of a man materialized beside him. He wore nondescript clothing that seemed from another time and sported a walrus mustache on his thin face. _"This is our house. It and everything in it belongs to us."_

On his other side a bony woman appeared with her hair in a flipped bob. Her dress was definitely old-fashioned, but oddly one Dean thought he recognized. _"You can't have our house!"_

"Lady, I don't want your house," Dean said, edging towards the hatch. "I want my brother."

"_Liar! The bank sent you, just like they sent all the others. They never found us." _

In a swirl of gray mist, the woman disappeared. It was then Dean remembered where he'd seen clothes like hers before. It'd been in Peter Jackson's remake of King Kong and all their talk of the bank wanting their house suddenly made perfect sense. Many people lost their houses during the Great Depression, some living in squalor or squatting in places like Hooverville.

"_You can't have it. It's ours." _The man slowly disappeared from view.

"Hey, times were tough. I get it," Dean said, hoping to reason with the ghosts. Why, he wasn't sure because experience had taught him the futility of trying to communicate with angry spirits. These two in particular had decades in which they'd become stronger and twisted, each passing year stripping away more of their humanity leaving only the barest awareness of their former lives and an abundance of fear and anger.

It left him grasping at straws as he was fresh out of ideas to get them away from Sam long enough to get into the pit and out without getting trapped himself. "I don't care if you stay and you can keep all your stuff." Dean waved his flashlight at the dusty trash around them. "Just let me have my brother."

"_No, he's our pet." _

Dean's anger flashed, heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Sam's _not_ a pet," he growled.

"_Not a good one, not _yet _anyway, but we're trying to train him."_

"That's it, I'm done reasoning with spirits," Dean muttered under his breath. He needed iron, or salt rounds, or better yet to find the ghosts' remains and burn them. None of which was possible because he wasn't leaving Sam here for another minute to go back for supplies. The problem, of course, was the moment he entered the sub-basement, the ghosts would seal them both in.

"_Can't have him."_

Dean looked around for something to use against the spirits. Boxes of garbage, dusty books, old dishes, and clothes dotted the small basement. "How about this?" Dean asked, picking up a random book out of the nearest box. "I'll make a deal with you. You give me Sam and I'll let you keep everything else."

"_No, he's ours. It's all ours."_

"Not if I burn it." Dean took out his lighter, flicking it to life in one practiced motion. "It'll all be gone."

"_No! Ours!"_

"I'll start with this box," Dean said, opening a box filled with clothing. "These'll go up in flames in seconds."

"_Fine. Take him. He's a bad pet anyway." _

A blast of air shot up the stairs followed by a second and a whiny retort, _"I told you we should have kept the cat." _

The basement door slammed closed with a loud bang.

Dean didn't waste a moment, jumping into the pit and rushing over to his brother. Relief at finding Sam tempered by the state he found him in. Sam trembled, shivers racking his long body. Reaching out, he touched a hand to Sam's shoulder, angry to find extremely cold skin. Dean drew his hand back when his brother shied away, pulling himself into a tighter ball.

Ten days and he had no idea what Sam had been through, but Dean had a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer. He crouched low next to his brother, close but not touching. "Sammy, hey, let's get you out of here, okay?"

Sam let out a sob of relief, lifting his head briefly before squeezing his eyes shut. "Dean?"

"Yeah, kiddo, it's me." Dean gently grasped Sam's wrist, frowning at the shackle and chain. "You don't happen to know where the key is, do you?"

Sam shook his head, opening his eyes and squinting against the beam from Dean's flashlight. "I don't know if there is one."

"It's okay. It'll just take me a little longer, that's all. We're getting you out of here." He pulled the lock pick set from his pocket. Holding the flashlight in his mouth, Dean had Sam's first wrist free in seconds.

Long fingers instantly tangled themselves in Dean's shirt as he worked on the opposite restraint. It seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have been long at all in spite of Dean's shaking hands to free Sam of the wrist shackles.

Dean watched his brother surreptitiously as he worked on the metal bindings on his ankles. Sam rubbed his wrists softly, wincing when he hit a sore spot. The single beam of light in the oppressive darkness of the earthen pit was enough to see a shadowy bruise forming on his brother's cheek even though his head hung low.

As the final shackle fell away, Dean placed a hand on Sam's knee overcome with the need to connect with his brother. "Sam, look at me."

Sam looked up, blinking against the light.

"Are you okay?" Dean squeezed his brother's knee gently.

"I'm fine," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. His tone said he was anything but fine, but Dean wasn't about to press the issue. Now wasn't the time.

"Think you can walk?"

Sam hesitated before answering. "Help me up?"

"I'm not letting go," Dean replied. He lifted Sam to standing, frowning at his brother's bare feet. Wrapping an arm around Sam's back, he pulled back at the hiss of pain. "Sam?"

"It's okay, just get me out of here." Sam's voice was hoarse and grating as if he'd been shouting too long. Dean didn't want to dwell on that thought at all. He was already so angry it was hard to think straight and he still needed his wits about him to get them both out safely.

"Alright, I'm going to give you a boost up, if you think you can pull yourself out the rest of the way." Dean didn't miss the way Sam swayed, or that he hadn't stopped shaking. He doubted Sam could handle the short walk back to the motel either. Two lousy blocks is all that had separated them for days.

"If it means leaving here, I can." Sam followed Dean's lead blindly, the meager light too much for his eyes.

"Wait, wait," Dean said, realizing Sam would scrape his stomach on the rough concrete trying to haul himself up. Luckily, as usual, he was wearing two shirts under his jacket. "You need a shirt."

"I want out," Sam said, desperation leaking into his tone. "Please, Dean, let's just go."

"In a minute, I promise." Dean took off his coat and his outer button up shirt. It would never fit Sam, too short in sleeves and length. The t-shirt might hug his brother tight, but at least it wouldn't be confining. As he helped Sam into the black tee, he noticed the welts for the first time. "Shit, Sammy."

His hand ghosted over the puffy red stripes, lightly touching. "Don't," Sam whispered, twisting away so fast he lost his balance. If Dean hadn't reacted quickly, he would have fallen. Instead, Dean caught his brother by the wrist, ignoring the yelp of pain as he pulled Sam to him.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, softly. "Put your arm through here." He guided one of Sam's long limbs through and then the other, finally pulling the shirt over his brother's head. "Ready now?"

Sam nodded, reaching up to grasp the lip of the entry only inches over his head. His jeans slipped down, and he scrambled to grab the waistband. "Ready."

"One, two," Dean counted off, "three." With a mighty shove, he pushed Sam up, nearly all the way out of the opening. It had been ten frantic days for him, and obviously hell for his brother. Sam had lost a noticeable amount of weight.

Dean slipped back on his shirt and coat before easily pulling himself out of the sub-basement. Sam was sitting only a few feet away, his head resting on his knees again, one arm wrapped protectively around his torso. Dean walked over, careful not to touch him again without telegraphing his intent. "Ribs hurt?"

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice muffled against bent legs. "Eyes worse."

"Throat, too," Dean said, stating the obvious so Sam wouldn't have to. "I'm going to put my coat over your head. You can use it to block out the light when we get upstairs and outside."

"Thanks." The amount of gratitude packed into the single word made Dean's chest constrict. As soon as Sam was safe, he was coming back here to waste those spirits. Placing his jacket over Sam's head, he waited until his brother had it situated before helping him stand. With one hand holding the jacket, it left Sam alternating between holding up his jeans or grabbing Dean's shirt. Poor kid was one hand shy.

"I'm going to have to put my arm around your back to help you walk. I know it hurt before, but I don't see another choice."

"It's okay," Sam reassured him. "Let's just go."

Dean wrapped an arm around Sam, holding the waistband of his brother's jeans to give him a free hand. Sam didn't hesitate, grabbing onto Dean's jacket like a lifeline. "Stairs first."

The going was slow, Dean watching carefully for anything Sam might step on, Sam stumbling uncoordinated beside him. They were almost to the broken front door when a strong gust of wind nearly knocked them both off their feet.

"_Ours."_

Sam shivered in his grip adding fuel to Dean's raging fire. "You're dead! He's my brother, and we've been through this already," he growled. He should have seen this coming. It had been way too easy to get them to back off before.

"_We changed our minds. You can't have our pet."_

Invisible hands pulled Sam away, the not quite suppressed whimper breaking what was left of Dean's control. He didn't think clearly or smart, going against everything his Dad had taught him. He simply reacted. He pulled out his pearl-handled Colt and fired at the ornate mirror on the far wall.

"_Don't break our things!" _

Sam was tossed roughly against the wall. He sagged down until he sat slumped in the corner, hand still clinging to Dean's borrowed jacket. He panted heavily, obviously in pain.

"I might say the same to you, bitch," Dean retorted, running over to his brother. He leaned in close and whispered, "We're getting out of here now." He waited a beat for a nod of understanding before carefully hauling Sam to his feet. Dean used the other hand to pull out his Zippo again. He'd had this particular one for years, but he didn't hesitate throwing it to the ground near a stack of old magazines.

"_No!"_

Objects flew through the air. An old vase, a forgotten picture frame, even a dented, metal milk can all launched towards the brothers which Dean either avoided or took the blow to protect Sam. As they squeezed through the front door, the fire behind them spread. The desperate howls of the ghosts locked inside brought Dean an intense feeling of satisfaction.

_TBC_

….…………………………………………………**Supernatural**……………………………………………………………..

AN: I wasn't going to post this until I posted the next installment of Lady, but if I didn't quit nit-picking this chapter I was going to go CRAZY. Oops, too late. Shoot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I'm sure they're happy about it, too.

**Beta'd: **By Carocali. Thank you so much for having patience with me!

_Special thanks to Phx. _

**Warning: **A just a few shadows deeper than my normal fare. This chapter dips back into the dark water a bit.

…………………………………………………………**Chapter Three**…………………………………………………………

Sam collapsed on the sparse grass outside the house. "Dean, I can't. I have to sit down."

"Sammy, I'm sorry, but I just started a fire. The fire department and probably the police will be here soon. We have to go." Dean hated pushing his brother, but they really couldn't stay here. He rested a hand lightly on Sam's shoulder, dismayed to feel the tremble that ran through his brother's body. The touch was meant to be reassuring, but he worried it was having the opposite effect and pulled away.

"Yeah, okay." Sam took a couple of deep breaths, the last one released in a shaky exhale. "Just give me a minute."

"I could run back to the motel and bring the Impala around," Dean said, trying to keep the reluctance he felt out of his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his newly found brother alone.

An electric jolt of panic seemed to shoot through Sam and he groped blindly until he had a fistful of Dean's shirt in his hand. "Don't leave!" It sounded hoarse and panicked and not at all like Sam.

"Easy, hey," Dean reassured him, "we'll go together then, but we need to go now."

Sam nodded, and Dean took it as a sign of readiness. He moved to help his brother up, catching sight of Sam's bare feet. It was only two blocks, but there was no reason Dean couldn't spare his socks to make it a little easier on his brother. It didn't take long to make the exchange, and in no time he was hauling Sam to standing.

Dean offered a litany of encouragement, keeping up a running dialogue on the slow walk back to the motel. Behind them, he heard sirens, the fire having caught someone's attention no doubt. There was no rushing their progress, however, as Sam struggled with the coat draped over his head, jeans that wouldn't stay up, and increasing fatigue.

Sam leaned heavily against him. Dean supported more and more of his brother's weight until by the time they reached the motel room door, he was all but carrying Sam over the threshold. He didn't turn on the light and was pleased to find the heavy drape pulled closed. Dean left the front door cracked for light, easing his brother to the bed.

Sam watched him with a half-lidded gaze. "Relax, Sam. We'll be leaving soon."

"Shower," Sam grated out, shaking his head.

"I'll get a washcloth for you."

"Shower," Sam's voice gaining an edge of stubbornness.

Dean huffed in exasperation, turning to flick on the bathroom light. He filled a plastic, disposable cup with water and closed the door to a crack on his way out before shutting the front one. From the bed, his cell jangled in his coat pocket. Sam fumbled inside the jacket, squinting against the blue light as he tried to read the panel display. He held out the phone when Dean crossed the room. "I think it's Bobby," Sam said, his tone uncertain.

"Shit!" Dean swore. He knew he was in for an infamous and well-deserved Singer tongue-lashing before he even hit the talk button. He leaned closer and handed Sam the glass. "Drink slow, I don't want you getting sick."

Sam rolled his eyes, but snagged the cup taking several frantic gulps before stopping. He looked up at Dean and offered a harsh whisper, his throat clearly sore. "Answer the phone, Dean."

"Double shit!" Dean swore again. He'd almost forgotten the phone. He hit the button hearing Bobby cussing before he even placed it next to his ear.

"_Damn it, Dean, it's been hours. You plannin' on callin' me or not?"_

"Sorry, Bobby," Dean started, only to be cut off by the older man.

"_I got feelers out there, Dean, but they ain't turning up anything on Sam and then you go missing all afternoon. You trying to send me to an early grave?"_

"No, I'm sorry," Dean tried to apologize again. "I found Sam and well, it took awhile to get him back to the motel. I was going to call you soon."

A loud harrumphing noise came through the phone, but Bobby stopped shouting, the volume of his voice back to a normal level. _"Thank God. He okay?"_

Dean looked at Sam, trying to be objective and failing miserably. His brother looked lost, filthy, hurt, and worst of all was the haunted expression in his eyes visible even in the dim lighting. Sam played with the empty cup in his hand, occasionally giving the bathroom a longing gaze. "He will be."

"_Could you be a little more cryptic there, Dean? I almost got a clue from that."_

"I'd rather not talk about it right now. Sam's waiting to use the shower." Sam's ears picked up on the shower and he silently conveyed his ability to shower on his own which Dean nixed with a pointed look.

"_Got it. Fill me in later. I'll let Rufus know he can call off the hounds."_

"Thanks, Bobby. I'll call tonight after Sam's squared away," Dean said, ignoring the frown of disapproval from his brother.

"_Heard that one before already. The important thing is Sam's safe. You can fill me in when you get here." _

"Sure," Dean said, acknowledging the unspoken command to pack up and head for the salvage yard. With his latest felony arson and, the fact Shelly had a good enough look at him to give some kind of eye witness description in spite of her age, Dean was ready to leave. "We'll see you soon."

"_Just take care of yourself, and your brother. I don't need any more gray hairs."_

"I will."

The phone line went silent before Dean had a chance to disconnect the call. He tossed the cell onto the bed and turned to face his brother. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Sam said, ignoring Dean's hand and pushing himself off the bed. "I can do this, Dean."

"You were practically dead weight by the time we got here," Dean said, grabbing Sam's elbow and steering towards the bathroom. "I understand, I do, but you need a little help right now and there's nothing wrong with that."

Sam whipped his head to offer him a look of furrowed confusion that almost toppled his precarious balance. "Understand what?"

"Control," Dean said, stooping to snag sweat pants and boxers from Sam's duffel. "You haven't had any for awhile and you want it back."

Sam ducked his head, obviously embarrassed. "I'm fine, Dean, really."

"I know you are," Dean said, wishing he was as confident as he sounded. He paused to start the water running. "It's okay if you're not though." He waited until Sam finally lifted his head to look at him. "Sam, whatever happened, it's over."

Sam nodded jerkily, running a hand through greasy stands of hair as he often did when he was nervous or unsure.

Dean patted his brother on the shoulder. "Need help?"

"No," Sam said. Dean frowned, trying to gauge the truthfulness of the answer. "Really, I got this."

"Seven minutes," Dean said, with a slight nod. He didn't fail to notice the scowl on his brother's face.

"Why seven?"

"Navy shower plus five extra minutes because I'm an awesome brother."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he conceded.

Dean shut the door, giving Sam much needed privacy. He started a mental list of things they needed to make it through the next few days on the road. After he had his brother settled in, Dean needed to make a supply run.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam had barely finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when a loud knocking sounded at the door. "Time's up!" Dean shouted, his voice muffled by an inch of hollow core wood.

He sighed, wishing for more time, but it wasn't worth fighting Dean over it. His brother was still in search and rescue mode, and Sam knew the hovering would continue until Dean had a chance to see he was truly okay. Except Sam knew he wasn't. "I'm out," he said, relieved when he heard Dean move away from the door.

Turning off the water, he toweled dry and slipped into the warm sweats Dean had left on the sink for him. No socks or shirt though, and Sam knew there was a reason. His brother wouldn't have left him shivering and half-dressed without a purpose behind it.

Dean hadn't turned the overhead lamp on leaving only one small window to light the bathroom, but it was enough. Sam barely glanced at his reflection in the mirror, the dark, shadowy unfamiliar beard a direct contract to the paleness of his skin. It was easy enough to see why Dean was treating him like he might fall over at any second. He looked like crap. If he was being honest with himself, he felt like crap, too.

When he opened the door he wasn't surprised to find Dean orbiting nearby, casually falling in step behind him as he made his way to the bed. The mattress was soft, a welcoming comfort after hard dirt and rock. Sam picked fabric pills off the sheet, not really wanting to sleep. He felt stupid, but too many times in he didn't know how long, he'd dreamt of getting free only to awaken to ghostly touches he couldn't evade.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Dean was apparently going to give him time to adjust before pushing him in any way. That alone was enough to tell Sam just how weak he must look to his brother. Dean was usually about as subtle as a sledge hammer.

When he looked up, Sam expected to see sympathy on his brother's face. What he saw took him by surprise. Dean's brow creased with concern, but his eyes were simply searching, waiting for Sam to talk.

"Are we headed to Bobby's?" Sam asked, finally.

"I thought we'd stay here tonight," Dean said, his voice carefully neutral. "But it's up to you."

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek. He was exhausted. "Staying here sounds good," he said.

"Great," Dean said, leaning across the expanse between the two beds to offer Sam a small tube. "We'll bunk here tonight. Use this on your…" Dean gestured to his wrists and ankles with the container. "It's antibacterial ointment."

That explained why Dean hadn't given him more clothes. Sam realized belatedly that a t-shirt and a pair of socks were sitting on the bed next to his brother. "Thanks." He rubbed the sticky gel into his sore wrists and ankles. His wrists were the worst, which made sense because they'd been shackled the longest. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How long?"

Dean's lips pressed tightly together and Sam could see how much effort it was costing his brother not to get upset. "Ten days."

"Ten days?" Sam whispered, waiting for the nod of confirmation from Dean before looking away.

Ten days? All that time spent cold, in the dark and alone with no way to judge the time, nothing to do. Yet, it seemed as if Gert and Tim had been there constantly. Touching, talking, never giving him any real peace because he never knew when they'd show up. He'd played mental games with himself to stay grounded. Reciting exorcisms, naming all fifty states and their capitols, the periodic table, he'd even tried remembering every town they'd ever been to. He'd never guessed so little time had passed. It had felt so much longer.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, worry climbing into his tone. "You okay?"

"Yeah." It sounded wet and hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"Try thinking out loud," Dean said, reaching forward to snag the tube of ointment from Sam and hand him the socks. "Talk to me."

"I, it," Sam started, and then sighed. He unrolled the socks, slipping the warm cotton over cold toes. "It just felt longer, that's all."

"For me, too," Dean admitted. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs, hand dangling between his knees. "Were you down there the whole time?"

Sam swallowed hard. He didn't want to talk about this, but avoiding it would only make Dean worry and that would lead to all kinds of questions Sam wasn't ready to answer. "Yeah, I woke up there."

Dean frowned, probably putting two and two together and realizing Sam had been unconscious for awhile, but he didn't push for details. Instead, he nudged Sam's knee with one of his own. "Vicodin or Tylenol?"

"That's a hell of a swing, Dean," Sam said, raising an eyebrow.

"I know, but you said your ribs hurt and I've yet to get a good look at your back." Dean scooted forward, invading Sam's personal space. "So which is it, Sam?"

There was something appealing about the idea of a stronger pain pill, one that would not only take the edge off, but allow him to fall asleep in minutes and with any luck it would be a dreamless sleep. His stomach was definitely empty though, and anything more than acetaminophen would be making a reappearance. "Tylenol."

Dean snagged a pill bottle from the nightstand, shaking four out onto his palm. He handed Sam the Tylenol and a bottle of water. "I'm going to make a run," he said. "We need some first aid supplies, some food, and…"

"I'm not hungry," Sam interrupted. His throat convulsed as he thought about the last thing he'd eaten making it difficult to swallow the pills. He washed them down with half the bottle of water.

"Yeah, well tough."

"Dean, I," Sam started, leaning back and away from his brother.

"Sam," Dean said, gripping Sam's arm to prevent him from going any further. "You need your space, I get it, but I'm not going to sit back and let you get sick because you aren't taking care of yourself."

"Dean." It was heartfelt and painful, a plea for understanding.

Dean moved from his bed to sit next to him, their shoulders barely brushing. The familiar gesture instantly helped him relax, the feeling of home and safety that came with being near his brother.

"Sammy, just trust me."

"You know I do," Sam said quietly.

"Things will look better in the morning," Dean said, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own. "I promise."

"I'm out of that hole," Sam said, twisting slightly to make eye contact with his brother. He offered a wobbly smile. "It's already better."

Dean nodded with a return grin. "Same here." He gestured for Sam to lie down. "Let me take a look." Sam lay down on his stomach, wrapping his arms around the pillow and sinking into it. He sighed, shutting his eyes. A cloth dropped over his closed lids and he moved to pull it away. "Leave it," Dean said. "I need to turn on the light to see."

The swinging lamp beside the bed flicked on, and Sam tensed waiting for the artificial brightness to assault his sensitive eyes. He heaved a sigh of relief. Whatever Dean had given him, it blocked out enough of the light. There was a hiss of breath and a mumbled curse from somewhere above and behind him.

"A couple of these need antibiotic gel, but there's not much else to do, except take better pain killers."

He rolled his eyes behind closed lids. Dean had offered him the choice, but clearly he'd wanted Sam to take the stronger pills. "It's fine," he said. Sam began to roll onto his side to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder had him lying flat again.

"Stay down," Dean said, his voice firm.

Warm fingers pressed on his shoulder a moment longer before disappearing. Moments later the touch was back, applying cold gel to the sensitive welts. By the time Dean finished, Sam was nearly asleep, warm and relatively pain-free for the first time in days.

"Are you going to be alright here for awhile while I'm gone?"

Sam woke up enough to scowl in Dean's general direction. "I'm fine, Dean."

"Just don't go anywhere," Dean said. A week and a half of anxiety was rolled up in his tone.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Dean frowned. "What for?"

"For making you worry," he said. Snuggling down into the blankets he wrapped his arms around the pillow bunching it up under his head.

"Sam, don't apologize. Nothing about this was your fault," Dean said, abruptly standing and walking a few steps away.

"Except for letting my guard down and getting knocked out by a flying kettle," Sam said with a yawn.

"It's not your fault. Shit happens."

Sam looked up at Dean, his eyebrows raised. "Face it, Dean, our lives are weird."

Dean smirked, retrieving his cell phone from the bed. "And you're a trouble magnet, Sammy, but that still doesn't mean you have anything to apologize for. Go to sleep, I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Okay." Sam closed his eyes, sliding deeper into the covers when the door clicked shut. He was asleep before the Impala engine roared to life.

_His shirt was gone, literally cut from his torso during Gertie's tirade. _

_He hadn't wanted to, God knows he tried to hold it, but after so long he had to go. He'd aimed for the corner, the small pit filling with a strong ammonia odor that seemed to draw the Schmidts to him. _

_Gertie had screamed at him, said he was bad, and that he needed to be taught a lesson. That was before Tim had yanked him to his feet, stretching his arms so high Sam could feel the rough concrete ceiling at his fingertips._

_He stood, trembling from cold in the absolute black and silent pit. Maybe they were gone now, this could be his punishment. Standing in this uncomfortable position, muscles straining from lack of use, manacles pulling skin tight, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been left alone for what felt like hours. Still, it was somehow preferable to the light, intimate strokes of affection that came without warning out of the oppressive darkness. _

_A whistling sound came out of nowhere and the first strike landed with a crack against his back. Sam bit his lip to keep from shouting out from the shock of the unexpected blow. It took until the third whack for him to recognize the belt they'd taken from him ages ago._

Sam sat up, chest heaving, blanket pooling around his waist. The room was dark, but it wasn't absolute blackness, not like it had been down there. Light from the cracked bathroom door spilled onto the carpet and the wall next to the window. Motel room, he was in the motel room and Dean had gone for supplies. Everything was fine. A small snort of residual panic induced laughter bubbled from his throat as he lay back down.

Outside, a semi truck downshifted on the freeway. He could hear the woman in the next room singing slightly off-key with the theme from _Gilligan's Island_. Sam pulled the blankets up, settling back in as his breathing returned to normal. Everything was fine. If he thought it enough times, it would be true.

The shot of adrenaline faded leaving Sam feeling cold. He curled on his side tucking the blankets up tightly around his ear. His eyes closed and he could feel himself drifting to sleep.

He felt a light caress on his cheek, a freezing finger tracing the knobs of his spine. Sam shivered, pressing his face tighter against the pillow. All he wanted was sleep. Why couldn't he stop thinking about _them_? "Leave me alone," he begged, the whisper barely audible. He knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but alone in the dark it was hard to remember.

His hair was softly brushed back behind his ear. _"Your brother destroyed our home."_

A shudder ran through his body, his blood running cold.

"_You're all we have left, pet."_

_TBC_

…..…………………………………………………….**Supernatural**………………………………………………………….

AN: Yeesh. Work is sucking all creativity from my soul right now. Sorry this is late!


	4. Chapter 4

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters, the car, and the concept belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By the talented Carocali! Thank you, girl! _I tinkered a lot after she beta'd so, as usual, all errors are my own._

_Special thanks to Phx and Muffy._

**Warning: **See previous chapters.

………………………………………………………..**Chapter Four**………………………………………………………….

The room was dark, just as he expected it to be. However, Dean wasn't more than two steps inside before he realized something wasn't right. In fact, it was obvious things had gone horribly wrong.

It appeared as if Sam's bed had exploded, blankets thrown in every direction and no sign of his brother anywhere. The weapons bag had been rifled through, a knife, one of the flasks of holy water, and Sam's shotgun were on Dean's bed. He was just about to panic when he saw a faint glow escaping through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door.

He shut the front door locking it quietly behind him, and drew his weapon. Dean's stealthy footsteps were silent on the worn motel carpet. He stood at the bathroom door listening for any sign of movement. That was when he noticed the thick line of salt across the threshold to the bathroom.

He rapped on the door. "Sammy?" Dean stood there for several heartbeats, ears straining to hear something in the silence. Nothing. "You better be decent in there, Sam, 'cause I'm coming in!"

Standing to the side, he slowly swung the door into the bathroom. When nothing happened, Dean poked his head around the doorjamb. Bright light assaulted his eyes. He put one hand up to shield against the beam from the flashlight. There was a gasp of surprise and a tentative, "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. Mind shining that thing somewhere else?" Dean stepped into the doorway noting another line of now disturbed salt on the inside of the door. Sam laid the flashlight on the floor, although he kept his fingers wrapped around it. Beside him was Dean's shotgun.

With every step he got closer, Sam seemed to shrink smaller until by the time Dean was crouched next to his brother, he was practically resting his chin on his knees. The unfamiliar beard only accentuated the gauntness of Sam's face, hazel eyes recessed in pale skin. First thing tomorrow Dean was making his brother shave it off. He reached up to feel the rough bristles of his fledging beard. Maybe it would be best if he lead by example.

Dean turned, slowly lowering himself to the floor next to his brother. A hundred questions rolled through his mind, but only one took form. "What happened?"

He received a shoulder shrug in response.

"Want me to help you back to bed?"

_That _elicited a response, just not the one he'd been expecting. "No," Sam growled. "I'm not a kid anymore, Dean. I can put myself to bed."

He'd only been gone an hour at the most, but something had definitely spooked Sam. "So, we stay here," he said with a half-shoulder shrug.

Sam gazed at him, eyebrows raised in incredulity. "You're just going to stay here on the bathroom floor?"

"I'm staying with my brother," Dean said, his voice catching on the last word. "Personally, I would have picked somewhere a little more fun, or at least softer, but hey, that's what I get for letting you choose. It's still better than the 'Hall of Yawns' you dragged me to when you were in the eighth grade."

Sam puffed a laughed that faded to a near sob. "It was the Chicago Museum of Arts," he said. "You disappeared halfway through the tour and came back later with pink, sparkly lip gloss stains on your neck and your shirt on inside out."

"Denise Staley," Dean said with a grin. She was two years older than him and hot. He wondered what she was doing now; probably married with two-point-four kids. He glanced over at his brother. Sam seemed to be collapsing, body curling inwards. Dean nudged him with his knee. "I'm here now."

Outside, someone slammed a car door. Sam startled, but it was controlled. He barely flinched, the quick pants of breath hardly noticeable. It was the way his eyes kept darting everywhere, as if he expected danger to arrive from any and all sides, which caught Dean's attention. He had to do something, it just wasn't in his nature to sit back and pretend he didn't notice his brother was hurting. So, he tried again. "Sammy, talk to me. What happened?"

"Nothing," Sam said, his eyes darting over to Dean. He licked dry lips, clearing his throat. "Honestly, I don't – that is – I think it was just a dream."

"A dream?" Dean asked, shaking his head. When it came to personal pain Sam had inherited the Winchester penchant for deny and suppress. "You mean a nightmare."

"That's a kind of dream, Dean," Sam said, sparing another glance in his direction. The deep purple bruise on his cheek stood out even in the meager light.

"Right, okay, so this _dream _caused you to have some weird sleepwalking 'salt yourself into the bathroom' experience armed with my gun?" Even his younger brother's legendary stubborn streak couldn't ignore the sarcasm in Dean's tone except, it seemed, Sam could.

"Yeah."

"Then you won't mind sharing," Dean said, calling the transparent bluff. He stared at his brother, waiting, not relenting even when Sam literally squirmed under the pressure. So, maybe patience wasn't his strong suit when something was hurting his brother and that included Sam himself. "Sam?"

"Do we have to talk about this now?" Sam looked at him, eyes beseeching Dean to drop the entire subject, minute tremors wracking his tall frame.

"We could talk about it somewhere warmer and more comfortable," Dean suggested, "but we are going to talk now."

"Okay," Sam relented, with a sigh.

Dean quickly stood, retrieving his shotgun from the floor as he pulled his brother to stand. He waited until Sam found his balance. "You good?"

"I'm fine."

He paused, allowing Sam to exit the bathroom first so he could turn on the light on their way out. Dean left the door wide open, stopping only to repack the weapons bag as his brother settled back into bed. By the time he sat down next to Sam, his brother was feigning sleep. "You're not getting out of talking."

"Dean, I'm tired," Sam mumbled, snuggling down into the covers.

"You're trying to avoid me and that's pretty hard to do in a small room," Dean said. Sam turned onto his side, looking up at him. "Come on, Sammy, talk to me. I'm just going to sit here until you do."

"Dean," Sam started, then seemed to think better of protesting and stopped.

Silence reigned for several moments until Dean made a sound of impatience, prodding his brother with a light poke on his shoulder. "Spill."

"Please, just let it go," Sam pleaded. His eyes fell to the bed, hands twisting into the sheets.

"Not gonna happen. Sorry." Dean shifted, lightly tapping his brother on the arm again to remind Sam that he was still waiting. "Let's have it."

Sam let out a long, shaky exhale before beginning. "I was back in the pit," he said, his breath quickening. "I'd been there for hours, I don't really know how long." He stopped, scooting until he was sitting with his back resting against the headboard.

Sam shivered, gooseflesh rising on his bare arms. Dean reached across the divide, grabbing the forgotten long-sleeved tee from his bed. He'd laid it out earlier, but Sam had fallen asleep after Dean had finished applying the antibiotic gel. There'd been no point in waking his brother just to put on a shirt. "Here."

"Thanks."

Dean waited until Sam shrugged on the t-shirt before rolling his hand as a sign to continue.

"I, uh," Sam said, stammering through his explanation. "I, Gertie got mad and decided, she uh…"

"It's okay," Dean said, "take your time, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard, nodding jerkily. "She and Tim punished me."

Dean narrowed his eyes in anger. "You mean they hurt you? Is that how you got those welts on your back, or the bruised ribs?"

"Back," Sam said, quietly.

"Sam, look at me," Dean said, patting his brother on the knee to get his attention. "Hey."

Sam lifted his head, the pain and embarrassment clearly visible on his face even in the shadowed room. His eyes appeared nearly brown, wet with emotional upheaval. "What?"

"It wasn't a _punishment_, it was a _beating_," Dean said. He continued, needing Sam to understand what he was saying. "You weren't some disobedient kid, you were their prisoner."

"Pet," Sam corrected with a whisper.

Dean clenched his hands into fists fighting to keep the anger inside. "Sam," he growled.

"It's what they called me," Sam defended. He paused, breaking eye contact. "Even after I woke up earlier."

"Sam, they were angry spirits, broken, and wait – what?" Dean asked, lifting an eyebrow. "After you woke up from the dream?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a small huff. "No. I don't know."

Dean took a deep breath and slowly released it. "What _exactly _happened?"

He shouldn't have gone anywhere. It seemed more humane to go to the store, the pharmacy, and the gas station by himself and not drag his traumatized, light-sensitive, beat-to-hell brother with him.

He hadn't been wrong. The crowds and noise would have been Sam's undoing. One night of sleep wasn't going to change that, especially if it was riddled with nightmares. It didn't stop Dean from questioning his decision though, especially when his fiercely independent brother looked so lost.

Sam fidgeted, playing with the edge of the blanket before he seemed to realize what he was doing and dropped it. "I woke up and it took me a minute to remember everything. Then _they_ were here saying you'd burned down their house and they had nothing left but me." He looked up, expression earnest. "Dean, I swear to God, I _felt _Gertie touch me."

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore under his breath. He really needed to take out his frustrations on something, but his options were limited. Right now, the bathroom door was looking promising. He could splinter it with a couple of good kicks. He tensed, needing to move but, he couldn't, nor wouldn't lose control in front of Sam. Fingers tangled in his shirt sleeve.

"Don't leave."

"Not going anywhere," Dean promised, forcing himself to relax. "Sam, you know your stuff. Do you think they were really here or that it was part of your dream?"

"I don't think we can rely on what I think," Sam said, his eyebrows furrowing. "I had a few dreams when I was – missing, that felt like I was, well, that felt real."

"While you were dreaming or after you woke up?" Dean asked.

Sam's forehead curled in confusion. "While I was dreaming. After I woke up I knew I was still there."

"But today, you were awake?" Dean's eyes searched his brother's face, hating how unsure of himself Sam obviously felt.

"I was awake," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. "Spirits we know, Sam. We can take care of this."

Sam sat up straighter. "Okay? I say I was awake and just like that we're hunting spirits? How can you trust my judgment when I don't?"

"I just can." Dean offered a lop-sided grin and a nod of affirmation. "So yeah, Sammy, just like that."

A slow smile spread across Sam's face, dimples digging into his cheeks. "Okay."

"Wait here." Dean stood, crossing the room to warm water in the coffee pot. "Since you're awake I'll make something for you to drink."

"Sounds good." Sam ran his tongue over parched lips, before scrunching down under the blankets.

"Give me five minutes," Dean said, glancing over at his Sam. He shook his head fondly at the mumbled, sleepy reply from his brother. "Looks like we better make that twenty."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It was warm under the blankets and the comforting sounds of Dean humming quietly while he put away supplies and unpacked food lulled Sam back to sleep. This time when he woke, the room was gently lit by scattered indiglo night lights. The air was redolent of chicken broth, and something Sam couldn't quite identify, but when a mug of hot tea was thrust in front of his barely open eyes, he placed the peppermint aroma.

He drank slowly, waiting for each sip of hot, then warm, then mostly cold tea to settle in his stomach before taking another. By the time Sam was finished, he was sleepy again, eyes drifting closed.

"Uh-uh," Dean said, nudging him. "Soup first, then you can sleep again."

"I'm not sleeping," Sam said, his voice sounding more like his own. "I'm resting my eyes."

"Sure, right," Dean said. The smell of broth intensified and Sam fought down rising bile. "Time to eat."

"Not hungry."

The bed dipped. "How many times did they feed you? Because, Sam, you've lost weight and a lot of it. Be honest, how many?"

Sam opened his eyes. "Three." His throat convulsed, remembering. Now that he knew what his last meal had been, he didn't even want to think about the other two. He gagged, struggling to get free from the blankets.

"Easy, breathe," Dean coached, one hand on the back of Sam's neck the other on his chest. "Just breathe."

Pathetic, he felt utterly and completely pathetic. They hadn't done that much to him, not in the big scheme of things. They'd taunted and torn at his psyche with words and darkness. He'd been kept in fear with pain and the unknown.

The worst though was being chained as if he was an animal. That was what haunted Sam the most, the way they'd treated him as something less than human, like he needed more reasons to feel that way. Sam's breathing slowed and the room came back into focus, even as his stomach lurched.

"Let me up."

"No."

Sam fought another wave of panic. "Dean, I'm gonna be sick!"

"No, just breathe through this. You need to keep the tea down, okay?" Concerned greens sought out hazels. "You're dehydrated, malnourished, and the last thing I want to do is make you feel like I'm forcing you to do anything, but you have to eat."

Sam shook his head. "Can't." He grimaced, wrinkling his nose. "The smell."

"Jell-O?"

Sam grimaced, placing a hand on his stomach out of reflex. The roiling slowed and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe."

"Jell-O it is," Dean said. He stood, taking the offending broth to the bathroom. Sam heard water running in the sink, and then his brother emerged wiping out the ceramic mug with a motel washcloth. "I bought red and green, which one do you want?"

Leave it to his brother to identify flavors by color, Sam smiled. "Red, definitely." Deciding he wasn't going to eat in bed like an invalid, Sam padded to the table with the gold, polyester blanket wrapped around him as a bathrobe.

Dean looked up from rummaging in the paper bag to offer Sam a smile of approval. Moments later an open plastic container of red gelatin was placed in front of him complete with a disposable spoon. "Will the smell bother you if I eat my dinner here?"

"I don't think so," Sam said, picking up the utensil. He didn't want to stop Dean from eating. Sam eyed the quivering mass of Jell-O suspiciously. "Go ahead."

Dean dug into another bag and threw himself down into the chair across from Sam. He pulled out a handful of fries and shoved them into his mouth. "Don't let me forget to call Bobby. He's expecting us tomorrow, but we're staying here until we figure out how to get rid of those spirits."

Sam took a bite of gelatin, rolling the smooth textured food around on his tongue for a moment before swallowing without chewing. "They aren't attached to the house, so it must be their remains."

"I think you're missing the not-so-obvious here," Dean said, taking another bite of fries. Sam raised an eyebrow. "They could be attached to _you_. They certainly weren't willing to let you go easily."

"_Let me go!" he bellowed, yanking hard on the chains. "Hey, is anyone out there? Let me go!"_

_He panted, attempting to rein in his fear. He'd already tried finding a way out of the manacles, but without anything to pick at the lock he was unsuccessful. Something cold touched his neck in the inky blackness and he startled. "Who's there?"_

_Another touch, this one on his cheek, an icy whisper at his ear. "We're not letting you go." The voice moved to the other side, a finger traced his collarbone. "You're ours now."_

"Hey, Sam, Sammy." Strong hands on his shoulders brought his mind slamming back into the present. Dean's concerned mossy green eyes searched his face. "You back with me?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Sam stammered, feeling the heat of embarrassment quickly rising up his neck. He tried to stand, but his brother's grip on his shoulders kept him bolted to the chair. He scooted back trying to gain some space.

Dean was too close.

Then he was gone, sitting in his own chair and Sam was standing, his back braced against the wall. "Are you with me?" Dean asked again slowly, his tone even. "Sam?"

"God, Dean, I'm sorry." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, pulling his bangs tight. "It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Dean said. "Sam, it's _not_." He remained in his chair, waving Sam to come back and patting the empty seat. "Sit down. You've barely touched your Jell-O."

Sam snorted, letting his hands fall with a slap against his legs. "You're worried about my dinner?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Dean said. He gestured to the chair again, and Sam walked over to sit at the table all the while avoiding eye contact with Dean.

Sam stared at the gelatin in the cup in front of him, oddly colored in the blue glow of the night lights and previously unnoticed jar candles. They were lightly scented vanilla and lavender, leaving him to wonder how he hadn't seen them before and what had prompted his brother to pick those particular ones.

"The lady at the pharmacy said lavender was soothing," Dean said, supplying an answer to Sam's unspoken question. Sometimes, his brother was eerily perceptive and other times talking to the proverbial brick wall would be more productive.

"You should get a refund," he dead-panned. When Dean didn't respond, Sam looked up and smiled. "Unless a freak-out was what you were shooting for with the 'soothing' candle."

Dean smiled in return, reaching for more fries. "Maybe I should." The grin dropped from his face. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really." Sam stabbed his food with the spoon, stirring it until it broke into smaller chunks. He took a large bite, then another. "I'd rather talk about how we're going to get rid of Gertie and Tim."

"We will. Later."

"Dean."

"Later," Dean said, standing up from the table and grabbing his food bag. "Tomorrow, after you've had a chance to get some real sleep."

"Dean, please," Sam said, "don't leave me out of this."

"I'm not," Dean said. "I promise, Sam. You'll be a part of it." He moved towards the door, but stopped when Sam made sound of protest.

"Where're you going?" He cringed at the note of panic in his voice.

"Outside," Dean explained, shaking the bag and hooking his thumb towards the door. "Just for a minute. I need the salt from the trunk."

"Salt's good." He attempted a smile, but it felt wobbly.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," Sam said. "Really."

"I'll keep the door open so I can see you the whole time." Dean stepped outside. "No one's getting you again, Sam," he promised.

Sam nodded, watching nervously as his brother walked to the Impala. True to his word, Dean only stopped to throw the paper bag in the trunk and get the can of salt. He stepped back into the room as Sam took the last bite of gelatin.

Dean salted the doorway and the window, then set the salt can down heavily on the table. "You still look like shit," he said.

Sam puffed a laugh. "Thanks."

Dean tugged gently on Sam's elbow. "Seriously, you need to try to get more sleep."

Sam wanted to protest, but how was he supposed to confess that sleeping left him more vulnerable to surprise visits, that it was impossible to relax, to fall asleep and stay asleep and the events of earlier had done nothing to prove his fears wrong. Instead, he allowed himself to be guided to the bed and tucked in like a child.

"I'm not tired," Sam said, but even he could hear the lie in his voice.

"Me neither," Dean lied right back.

Sam's eyes slid closed, his body shutting down in spite of his mind screaming to stay alert.

"We should talk about the spirits, get a plan," Sam mumbled, nearly asleep.

"Sure."

Before he could launch into a suggestion for a game plan, his mind switched off and he melted into the mattress.

_TBC_

………………………………………………………….**Supernatural**……………………………………………………

AN: Hey, even the guys deserve a chance to rest and regroup, right? :)

Happy New Year!


	5. Chapter 5

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **The Winchesters, the car, and the concept belong to Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Beta'd: **By the talented Carocali! Thank you very much!

**Special Thanks: **To Sherry for continued support and a certain reader (you know who you are) for poking me.

**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

_Dean tugged gently on Sam's elbow. "Seriously, you need to try to get more sleep."_

_Sam wanted to protest, but how was he supposed to confess that sleeping left him more vulnerable to surprise visits, that it was impossible to relax, to fall asleep and stay asleep and the events of earlier had done nothing to prove his fears wrong. Instead, he allowed himself to be guided to the bed and tucked in like a child._

"_I'm not tired," Sam said, but even he could hear the lie in his voice._

"_Me neither," Dean lied right back. _

_Sam's eyes slid closed, his body shutting down in spite of his mind screaming to stay alert._

"_We should talk about the spirits, get a plan," Sam mumbled, nearly asleep._

"_Sure."_

_Before he could launch into a suggestion for a game plan, his mind switched off and he melted into the mattress._

…………………………….……………………………**Chapter 5**……………………………………………………..………

Sam opened his eyes. He spied his brother just outside the door, munching on what could only be an ice-cold hamburger. Dean had obviously waited to eat the offending beef when it wouldn't bother him. In his other hand, he was holding his phone and talking with someone. If Sam had to hazard a guess, he would say it was Bobby. While he couldn't hear the words, he could hear the tone and Dean was worried, concerned, and unsure.

Dean stopped pacing, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. He poked his head around the corner to gaze into the room. Sam didn't close his eyes, but he lay very still, breathing easily. He could give his brother ten minutes of relative solitude to make a phone call. Every line of Dean's body posture and countenance spoke of weariness, edged by the fading light of the evening sun.

While Sam had been a prisoner, locked in with spirits who didn't give him a moment of peace, Dean had been here, frantic and unable to sleep for entirely different reasons. Now it seemed neither of them could quite believe they were both here, safe and relatively sound. "Bobby, I'm not going to do that," Dean said harshly, moving away from the door.

Sam couldn't see or hear his brother and it was enough to start a small feather of anxiety fluttering in his chest. Dean was not his personal security blanket; he was perfectly capable of being alone. He could do this. He was fine. It was no big deal. He was overreacting.

He _could_ do this.

Sam tucked shaking hands under his pillow. "Now, if only I believed it," he whispered.

A gust of wind blew through the door causing Sam to shiver. He knew the spirits weren't here, that the salt would keep them out and that Dean was just right outside the room, but part of him was sure the moment his guard was down they would be back. He startled when Dean walked into the room, closing the door with a quiet click. The bathroom door opened, light spilling into the sleeping area. He heard the water turn on, then off, but Dean didn't come out.

His eyelids drooped as his energy ran low. Sam turned onto his side for a clearer view of the bathroom doorway. When Dean finally emerged, he stood in the center of the room, just watching. "Dean, go to bed," Sam said, quietly.

"I thought you were sleeping," Dean said, his voice low. He crossed to his bed, sitting down on the edge facing Sam.

"What did you and Bobby argue about?" Sam asked, propping his head on a bent arm.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "and we weren't arguing." The nightlight near the bed illuminated only half of Dean's face, rendering his expression unreadable.

"Tell me." Sam closed his eyes, steeling himself for the truth. He didn't want it to be about him, but he had a bad feeling that was the case. Opening his eyes, he tried again to coax information out of his brother. "Please."

Dean expelled a breath in a long sigh. "We just had a difference of opinion on the best way to take care of the Schmidt spirits."

Sam frowned, face puckering in confusion. "It's pretty straightforward, isn't it?" God, he needed it to be. "We find out where they're buried and do a salt and burn, right?"

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" Dean asked.

"No." Sam sat up, turning to sit on the bed and mirroring his brother's posture. "Tell me now."

"Unless I'm right, Sam," Dean said, scrubbing a hand down his face and looking away briefly. "If those spirits are attached to _you, _it complicates things."

Sam tugged on his pursed lips. It's not as if Dean could salt and burn him as if he were human remains or a cursed object. His eyes darted around, searching for his laptop. Sam wanted the Schmidts gone; a little lost sleep was a small price to pay.

"Not tonight, Sam," Dean said, interrupting the younger man's thoughts. "It's only been a few hours; you need to get some more rest before plunging headfirst into a marathon research session."

"I just spent ten days doing nothing," Sam said, his voice soft. He cringed, kicking himself for having said anything because he certainly hadn't meant to.

Dean reached across the small distance between them. He lightly gripped Sam's forearms, mindful of his chaffed wrists. "Give yourself time, Sammy, at least one night. You can't tell me you got much sleep."

He couldn't deny that, every time he fell asleep had been another opportunity for Gertie or Tim to take him by surprise. Awake was safer. "I'm fine."

"Never said you weren't," Dean said, "Doesn't mean you have to be."

Sam lips curled into a short-lived smile. He pulled away from Dean's grip moving away until his back was resting gently against the headboard. "So, what're we going to do?"

"We're going to sleep, have breakfast including the strongest coffee we can scrounge up, find a way to get rid of those spirits together," Dean said, leaning forward to point at Sam. "And _you're_ going to cut yourself some slack."

Sam pressed his lips together in a tight line. He really hated being kept out of the loop. He'd never liked it as a kid and, despite all of Dean's good intentions, he didn't like it now. "Yeah, okay," he said, grudgingly.

"Sam, listen, I'm not keeping you out," Dean said, hitching forward. He sighed, standing and pivoting over to Sam's bed. "Bobby thinks you might be suffering from acute stress disorder. It's…"

The rest of Dean's words were drowned out by the beating of Sam's heart. He winced, his entire body recoiling at the label. Bobby thought he was crazy. He realized, belatedly, that Dean wasn't talking anymore, but looking at him expectantly. "What do you think?"

"I think you're my brother," Dean said. "I don't really give a shit about anything else."

Sam let out a shaky breath. "Thanks."

Dean patted him on the shoulder. "Go back to sleep. We'll figure this all out in the morning." With those words he moved to the other bed, climbing under the covers. "Good night, Sam."

"Night, Dean." Sam closed his eyes, letting his brain slowly shut down and just as he'd feared, Gertie and Tim waited for him in his dreams.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean was dog-tired. Ten days with very little sleep and a pot of anxiety boiling in his stomach had taken a toll on him. Yet Dean slept lightly, hyper-vigilant to every twitch of his brother's limbs and every sleep-muffled groan of protest that escaped from Sam's nightmarish memories.

Dean had finally drifted off for the third time, odd disjointed fragments of dreams slipping through his mind when it started again. He rolled onto his side and waited, watching Sam as he struggled through another dream or memory or whatever was happening to his kid brother inside his own mind.

To be honest, Dean had been expecting the nightmares. What disturbed him was how they were unfolding. Sam didn't thrash on the bed, but rather slept curled, taut and clearly on edge. He made barely a sound, just a slight twitch of his fingers or the occasional wince, but otherwise Sam was silent and still.

Dean took a deep breath letting it out slowly and loudly, almost missing the first quiet whisper from the other bed. "Please, stop."

This had to end now.

Dean was up, moving to sit on the huge expanse of open space on his brother's bed. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, frowning at the fine tremors running under his fingers. "Sammy, wake up," he said softly, desperation leaking into his tone. "Come on, bro, please?"

Sam's eyes slowly opened and he lay still, his breathing gradually evening out. It felt like an eternity before he looked up at Dean, confusion in every line of his face. "Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said, patting his brother on the shoulder before pulling his hand away. The curled brow gave way to smooth relief and Sam yawned.

"Is something wrong?"

Dean puffed out a sigh born of frustration and sheer exhaustion. "Much as I hate to push you, we need to talk."

"Right now?" Sam's voice betrayed his true feelings. Dean could hear the fear under the forced incredulity. "You woke me up to talk?"

"No, I woke you up so we could deal with what happened," Dean said, leaning back to give Sam room to sit up. "You were having a nightmare."

Sam's eyes flitted guiltily to the side. "Sorry, I know you're tired."

"I'm not worried about _my _sleep." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, then across the top of his head, pausing to scratch the back of his neck. "What were you dreaming about and don't give me some smart ass answer."

Sam squirmed under the scrutiny, but didn't respond and for a moment Dean honestly thought he wasn't going to get an answer. "Just about, you know," Sam said, in a hushed voice.

"I kinda figured that much." Dean sat quietly, giving his brother time to continue.

Sam twisted his fingers into the blanket, avoiding eye contact. "I was remembering one time," he cleared his throat, "one of many when I guess I'd fallen asleep. Gertie, she uh, she liked to _touch _me." He paused and Dean could see the reluctance to continue on his brother's face. "Like Jess."

Surely Sam didn't mean what it sounded like. "Touch you _how_, exactly?" Dean said, his tone containing an edge of anger.

Sam's eyes widened, following Dean's mental path. "No, nothing like that," he said. "Just intimate, you know? She'd stroke my cheek or run her fingers through my hair." Sam swallowed hard. "Her favorite was tracing the bruises Tim left."

It was a good thing Gertie and Tim were already dead. Dean tightened the fist that was hidden from Sam until his nails dug into the palm of his hand. His brother was not their damn plaything. The way they'd treated Sam was beyond Dean's comprehension; he couldn't wrap his brain around the why. The silence stretched as he reined in his emotions.

"I'm okay," Sam said, ducking his head in obvious embarrassment. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Sam, I'm just," Dean's voice trailed off as the words stuck in his throat. Sam shifted on the bed, attempting roll away, but Dean blocked his efforts. "Hey, not done yet."

"Dean, I know it's stupid," Sam said, ducking his chin. "I'm here, you're here, it's all over and I'm over-reacting. I'll be fine, it's fine."

"It's not stupid," Dean said. He tapped Sam on the knee. "Look at me."

Sam didn't raise his head, but he did make eye contact. It would have to be enough.

"It's not stupid," Dean repeated. "What they did," he shook his head, "look, whatever it is you think I'm thinking, you're wrong."

Sam looked up, tilting his head and face puckering. "What do you mean?"

"I'm angry," Dean explained. "Sam, I'm furious. If they were still alive instead of ghosts, I don't know what I'd do."

"Don't say that." Sam moved until his leg was pressed against Dean's bent knee.

"It's true," Dean insisted, softening his tone. "Tell me what to do, Sammy."

"There's nothing to do," Sam said, scooting down the bed and curling on his side towards Dean. "We just both need to sleep."

"That's part of the problem," Dean insisted. "You're not sleeping. Maybe if we talk through how you're feeling?" He'd managed the last part without sounding like he was forcing it. Sam's exaggerated look of disbelief was visible even in the dim lighting. "What? I don't mind talking about _your _feelings."

Only as a smirk settled over Sam's features did Dean realize his fatal mistake and it was much too late to back-pedal now. "I'll tell you if you tell me," Sam offered.

"We'll see," Dean said. "Come on, bro, talk to me."

Sam sighed, running a hand through his bangs. "I don't know what to tell you that I haven't already said. Dark, cold, punished-" Dean gave him a pointed look. "Okay, beaten, starved-" Sam shuddered. "Touched."

Dean nodded and when he spoke, he kept his tone deliberately soft in spite of his own emotions. "So…scared?"

Sam drew in a shuddering breath. "Yeah."

"Like an animal?" Dean scooted closer to his brother.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, dropping his head.

"Abused?" Sam nodded, curling his knees up to his chest.

Dean watched his brother carefully, keeping his tone even. "Ashamed?" Sam drew in a sharp breath of surprise and hid his face in bent knees. "Sam?" His brother curled tighter. "Talk to me," Dean said, palming the back of Sam's head before resting his hand on his brother's shoulder.

The ball of Sam exploded. Arms and legs shot out, one taking Dean by surprise and rocking him backwards. "Yes, okay? Yes." Sam leapt off the bed, edging towards the bathroom. "I'm ashamed they got the jump on me in the first place, embarrassed that I let them _get_ to me, and frustrated that I can't seem to just friggin' let it go!"

"Sam, it's been less than twenty-four hours," Dean said, softly. He stood and took a couple of steps towards his brother, stopping when Sam moved closer to the bathroom. "No one expects you to be over it."

Sam paused, seeming to consider Dean's words. "I do." In a blur of cotton and flannel, Sam slipped into the bathroom, the door locking shut behind him.

"Attaboy, Dean," he said to himself, sarcasm dripping off each note. Dean sighed heavily. "Way to make things better."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam sat down heavily on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. He was shaking, fingers trembling as they involuntarily tugged on his hair. He shivered hard, teeth chattering in the cold bathroom. _Get a grip, _he chanted a litany under his breath.

The old water pipes rattled under the sink beating a chorus with his quivering insides. The cold tiles bit his toes through his socks and he curled them in tight. Sam shivered again, wrapping his arms around his stomach and tucking his hands under his armpits. The knocking in the wall grew louder, but it was the hot water tap slowly turning on and the steady stream trickling into the sink that garnered his attention.

Sam stood on wobbly legs, voice frozen in his throat as the mirror fogged over. An invisible finger etched a single word into the condensation, each letter squeaking as it formed. He swallowed down a sudden rush of bile as the final stroke finished writing 'OURS' plainly on the steamed glass.

The indiglo light near the sink flickered and went out.

_TBC_

…………………………………………………..……**Supernatural**…….………………………………………………

AN: I broke this chapter when I realized the action was climbing again leaving me several scenes from the end and therefore another week from posting. Less was more in this case – but it is shorter than my normal. Hope you agree and thanks for sticking around!


	6. Chapter 6

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Theirs. *sigh*

**Beta'd: **By the fabulously talented, Carocali. Thanks, girl!

**Special Thanks: **To Sherry for all the feedback! Thanks too, to a couple of readers who while not pushing, reminded me they were waiting.

_Sorry this is so incredibly late. I offer no excuses. Life was simply – insistent, demanding, and all-consuming for a few weeks. I'm treading water like a madwoman so hopefully, I'll keep my head above water for awhile. /fingers crossed!_

**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

_Sam sat down heavily on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. He was shaking, fingers trembling as they involuntarily tugged on his hair. He shivered hard, teeth chattering in the cold bathroom. Get a grip, he chanted a litany under his breath. _

_The old water pipes rattled under the sink beating a chorus with his quivering insides. The cold tiles bit his toes through his socks and he curled them in tight. Sam shivered again, wrapping his arms around his stomach and tucking his hands under his armpits. The knocking in the wall grew louder, but it was the hot water tap slowly turning on and the steady stream trickling into the sink that garnered his attention._

_Sam stood on wobbly legs, voice frozen in his throat as the mirror fogged over. An invisible finger etched a single word into the condensation, each letter squeaking as it formed. He swallowed down a sudden rush of bile as the final stroke finished writing 'OURS' plainly on the steamed glass._

_The Indiglo light flickered and went out._

……………………………….……….………………….**Chapter 6**…………………………………………………………

"Stay away from me," Sam grit out in a harsh whisper. He backed towards the door, escape forefront in his mind. When cold fingers latched onto his arm, Sam opened his mouth to shout for his brother only to have an iron grip close around his throat strangling any sound.

"_Ours."_

Sam's lungs burned as he shook his head in denial. There was no mistaking Tim's angry presence boxing him in close, or Gertie's possessiveness clinging to his skin. Sam needed to break away, but he already knew the futility in fighting the spectral hands. He connected with wood, the freezing doorknob jammed against the small of his back. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Dean calling his name.

"Sam?"

He used his heel to thump weakly against the door. The fingers loosened ever so slightly and Sam drew in a horrible, pain-filled, wheezing breath. "Dean," he panted on the exhale, his voice too quiet to hear through the hollow-core door.

"Sam?"

He could hear the anxiety in Dean's tone and knew his brother was only moments away from barging in, invited or not. Under normal circumstances, Sam might have been bothered by it, but right now he prayed Dean would hurry. He took another breath and focused all his effort into a single syllable.

"Dean!"

The doorknob wiggled against his back and the pounding from the other side rocked through his head.

"Sammy!"

Steel-cabled fingers tightened around his throat again before Sam was unceremoniously tossed across the small bathroom. He landed awkwardly sandwiched between the wall and the tub where he'd sat only a few short hours ago talking through things with Dean. His breathing hitched as his ribs throbbed in protest.

In a flash, Gertie was on him, straddling his legs with one hand resting on his chest burning through the cotton t-shirt. A feather-light touch on his neck and a whisper of endearment in his ear and Sam was back in the sub-basement.

The door was flung open, smacking soundly against the ceramic tiled wall. A bright light flooded the room and Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

"Get away from my brother," Dean growled.

Sam's heart skipped with relief.

"_Ours, you stole him from us," _Gertie said petulantly_._

"You got that a little backwards," Dean said, his voice sounding closer and laced with controlled fury. "Sammy was _mine_ first."

"_Little puppy was out wandering without a leash," _Tim chimed in.

Sam flinched when his hair was petted. Familiar frustration and anger bubbled at his current predicament, kept at bay by intense lingering fear. He could feel his heart race as it echoed loudly in his ears. A thin trickle of sweat made its way from his scalp, down the side of his face to his collar bone.

Sam took as breath in an attempt to calm himself and forced his eyes open. He blinked rapidly against the harsh florescent light. Dean was standing not more than ten feet away, shotgun trained on Gertie.

"I don't _belong _to you," Sam hissed at the spirit while holding his brother's gaze.

"_You found your voice," _Gertie purred, tracing the outline of his unfamiliar beard._ "I was beginning to think it was gone forever."_

Sam ignored the spirit, keeping his eyes trained on his brother. He didn't miss the tic of the muscle in Dean's jaw. "Shoot, please," Sam's abused voice cracked with desperation.

Even as he practically begged Dean to fire the shotgun, Sam knew why his brother wouldn't. The shot wasn't clear with Gertie smack in between them and the salt shrapnel would hit Sam. _Shoot, _he silently mouthed, praying Dean would listen. He'd take the pain of a rock salt blast over being at Gertie's mercy.

Dean's aim never wavered, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly. With a single eyebrow lift he communicated his intent and Sam nodded, ready for the chance to fight back in spite of his shaking limbs.

"It's time for you to leave, bitch," Dean snarled.

Sam twisted, dropping to lie on the floor and covering his head with his arms. The quick action momentarily confused the spirits and the angry retort of a shotgun rent the air. Instantly, the thick, oppressive atmosphere disappeared. Sam shook as relief warred with realized terror and he fought to regain control. A hand on his shoulder caused him to startle and he pushed to stand, only to hear Dean's voice over the pounding in his head.

"Easy, hey, it's over, Sam."

Sam sat up and looked at Dean, his fingers automatically reaching for brother. "They're gone?"

"Yeah, and we need to be, too," Dean said. His calloused fingers closed around Sam's and pulled Sam to his feet. "I'm sure someone heard that gunshot.

"Sorry," Sam apologized, knowing they'd have to beat a hasty retreat in the middle of the night.

"I'm not," Dean said his voice hard. "You're safe and quite frankly, that's all I care about."

Dean guided him out of the bathroom and toward the bed, but Sam shook his head, gently pushing his brother away. "I'll help pack."

Dean looked ready to protest, but instead he clapped Sam on the ball of his shoulder. "You grab our clothes, I'll get everything else."

Sam nodded. He turned on the bedside light and swung it away. It added enough light to see better without piercing through to his brain the way the bathroom light had. He spied one of Dean's socks sticking out from under the bed and bent down carefully to search for its mate. His sore ribs and back protested as he snagged both crusty socks. Sam opened their duffel for dirty clothes and an overpowering stench of sweat, body odor, and filth assaulted his nose.

"God," Sam muttered, covering his nose with his arm.

Quickly rifling through the bag, he found the culprit. The soiled jeans that he'd worn for so many days they'd practically become a second skin were the root cause of the malodorous scent. Sam shoved the clothes in his hand into the bag and fastened it closed with the other. He felt the heat climbing the back of his neck as comprehension dawned. That's what _he _had smelled like when Dean found him.

Moving to the table he slid the laptop into his messenger bag and watched as Dean threw food supplies into plastic shopping bags. "I'm going to take these out to the car," Sam said, shrugging his shoulder that carried the duffel. He winced as the friction burned the welts on his back and chest. "I've got the laptop, too." He started for the door, only to stop when a strong arm blocked his path. He looked over at Dean and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Wait for me," Dean commanded in a clipped tone.

"It's just out to the car," Sam said. He took another step toward the door only to be stopped by his brother for the second time.

"Sam, they couldn't get past the salt lines, so they came in through one of the only two other ways into this room, which they shouldn't have been able to do at all. One of the few times I've even seen it, was with that kid Peter's spirit and he was attached to the lake," Dean explained. He leveled a look at Sam. "They got in because they're attached to you."

Sam felt the blood drain from his face. He'd understood that intellectually, but it hadn't sunk in until now. "Then how's leaving going to help?" he asked, his voice small.

"I'm hoping it takes them awhile to find you," Dean said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We'll salt around the bed in the next motel."

"Dean, I can't stay in bed forever," Sam protested, flapping his arms in frustration.

"We'll figure this out," Dean vowed, his face set in determined lines.

"Let's just go," Sam said, shivering in spite of himself.

"Yeah," Dean agreed looking around, "I think I got everything."

Sam followed his brother out the door. He tossed the duffel into the backseat and climbed into the Impala. He tucked the computer down by his feet as Dean slid in the driver's side. A gentle nudge to Sam's ribs drew his attention to his brother. "What?"

"Hold this," Dean instructed, handing Sam a box of salt. "If nothing else, you can throw it at them if they try anything."

"It'll mess up your car," Sam replied with a tiny smile he didn't really feel.

"I don't care," Dean said, tightly. "You don't hesitate, Sam, you don't mess around. You have an inkling of spirit _anything_ you do whatever it takes to stay safe."

A rush of gratitude ran through Sam as he fidgeted on the cold seat. "Yeah, okay, let's just get out of here." Now that they were in the car, he was anxious to leave.

The Impala's engine roared to life. Before Dean pulled out onto the street, he gazed at Sam with a puckered look of concern. "I mean it. Cold spot, voices, touches, anything, you use that salt."

"I will." The box of rock salt shook quietly in his trembling grip. He ignored the surreptitious glances Dean kept tossing his way and focused on regaining control. Tim and Gertie were gone for now and with any luck they'd stay gone.

In the side view mirror, far off red and blue lights flashed until Dean pulled onto a side street headed the long way around to the freeway.

The journey continued in silence for well over an hour, Dean's hands clutched knuckle-white to the steering wheel in anger and frustration, Sam's leg jumping with shattered nerves. After pulling into the first motel, it only took Dean a few short minutes to check them in and soon they were unloading the car.

Dean salted the door and windows while Sam unpacked the groceries. A noise behind him had Sam spinning around, tossing salt before he had a chance to register his brother's presence. White granules speckled Dean's hair and a smirk spread across his face in spite of the circumstances.

"God, Dean," Sam sputtered, "I'm sorry." He carefully brushed salt out of his brother's spiked hair.

"Hey," Dean said, his voice warm and lined with humor, "right reaction, wrong target. You did exactly what you were supposed to do."

Sam huffed but didn't argue and followed his brother out into the sleeping area. Dean pulled one of the beds further into the room and carefully poured a salt ring around its entirety. "In you go."

Sam nodded, slowly eased onto the mattress, and lay down. He fumbled for the edge of the blanket only to have Dean pull it up. "Good night, Dean," Sam said with a yawn.

"Night, Sammy."

The bedside lamp flicked off and the glow of nightlights illuminated the room just enough to be comforting. Sam closed his eyes, ears tracking Dean's movements as he walked to the other side of the room.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean said, his tone quiet and even. "Had a bit of trouble with the spirits and switched motels. We're in Edenvale at the Sleepytyme Inn."

Sam couldn't hear the crusty hunter's words, but he could hear the tone and Bobby wasn't happy.

"They got in past the salt lines, came up through the plumbing." Dean's voice became more hushed. "Scared the crap out of me, Bobby. Sam was supposed to be safe."

There was a scrape of metal on tile as Dean turned away from him and Sam had to strain to hear that last bit. "Thanks for the offer, but we've got this. I'll keep in touch."

Guilt flowed through Sam with a cold rush of dread. As much as he didn't want to believe he was a worthless burden to Dean, Gertie had been sure to drill that idea into him often enough. Sam was thankful his brother was including him in the solution and selfishly he was also glad Dean had told the older hunter they had it covered. As much as Sam looked at Bobby as a father figure, he didn't want to be around anyone else. It was bad enough he'd had a meltdown in front of Dean, he'd be mortified if Bobby saw him act that way.

"No, it's not that. I'm sure Sam would be happy to see you. It's just, I don't want to spring any surprises on him. Hell, he freaked when I touched him."

Had he? Sam didn't remember exactly how it had gone down.

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean thumbed off the phone and moved noiselessly across the room. He slipped into bed with the whisper of linen.

Sam waited until his brother finally drifted off to sleep and began snoring. It was more of a loud exhale with a snuffle at the end than actual snoring, but it amused Sam nonetheless. He knew it was a sign of how truly exhausted Dean was, but the sound reassured Sam he wasn't alone in the dark.

With stealth born of years of experience, Sam slipped out of bed and stiffly walked over to the table to retrieve his laptop. Quietly climbing back under the covers, he hit the button to boot up the computer. He kept one eye on his brother and held his breath as he watched for any sign Dean might wake up. Sam, on the other hand, could afford to lose a little sleep. It was time to stop cowering in the dark and fight back.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean awoke as the first muted rays of sunlight found their way through the drapes. He was immediately alert, scanning the room for danger before settling on his slumbering brother. Sam was curled around the laptop which was suspiciously open, the orange light blinking in power save mode.

"Damn it, Sam," he cursed quietly under his breath. "You were supposed to sleep." Dean slipped out of bed, craving a shower but based on the events of the previous night he wasn't leaving his brother sleeping and unattended. Picking up his cell he sent Bobby a short text, and then leaned back against the wall, waiting for a response. He got one in the form of a phone call a few minutes later.

He answered by the third note. "Sam's asleep, _finally. _I'd kind of like to keep him that way," Dean said by way of greeting.

Sam stirred, turning onto his side to face Dean before instantly settling back to sleep.

"_I'm letting you off the hook on this one because I know you boys have been through a lot,"_ Bobby said gruffly. _"But don't push your luck."_

"Sorry, Bobby."

"_Don't mention it. How is he?"_

Dean glanced over fondly at his sleeping brother. Sam's pale face was partially obscured beneath the long arm draped over his head. "Been better, but all things considered he could be doing a hell of a lot worse."

"_The kid's tough, Dean, and he's got you. He'll be okay."_

"Yeah, I know he will." Sam would be okay, because frankly, Dean wouldn't have it any other way.

_Look, I found something I think might help keep those spirits away. I emailed it to you a few minutes ago."_

"Thanks."

"_Just – be careful."_

"We will."

There was a snort of disbelief before the line went dead and Dean pocketed the phone. Walking over to the bed, Dean snagged the laptop and carried it back to the table. It didn't take him long to sign into his email and pull up the one from Bobby. The enclosed detailed picture of a medallion filled the screen. It purportedly warded off spirits and it wasn't a complicated piece. He could draw it on the doors to rooms to keep spirits from entering.

The rest read like a grocery list: salt, cumin and caraway placed around the room in lines the way they would normally lay salt. Hopefully, the added ingredients would be enough to repel the spirits, because Dean doubted the more exotic herbs for satchels or personal purification could be found in Podunk, North Dakota. A quick call to the motel office thankfully gave him the name of a delivery service that would make the thirty minute voyage from Bismark. In short order Dean had the spices scheduled to arrive within a couple hours.

Dean busied himself with drawing the symbols on the doors and even the windows and the bathroom mirror. He'd finally settled onto the bed and began cleaning his Colt when a knock had him springing up and sprinting to answer the door. Dean paid the delivery guy and was in the process of placing the bag on the table when he noticed Sam was awake.

"Hey," Sam said his voice rough from disuse.

"Hey, yourself," Dean replied. He took in Sam's pale and gaunt face, his disheveled appearance, and the countenance of absolute weariness his brother wore. "You look like crap on a cracker."

Sam's lips curled into a smile big enough to dimple his cheeks. "Check the mirror before you point any fingers." He scooted off the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

"Leave the door open," Dean commanded.

Sam whirled around, a tight-lipped frown and raised eyebrows clearly communicating his disbelief.

"I'm serious, Sam."

Sam grunted an affirmative. He shut the bathroom door leaving it open only the smallest crack. Dean warmed water for instant oatmeal and tea while he waited for his brother.

"Dean?"

Dean frowned, suppressing a small flutter of trepidation at whatever had Sam tentatively calling for him from the bathroom. The last thing he wanted for Sam was a repeat performance of the Schmidt act from last night. Dean poked his head in the door and saw his brother standing at the mirror. Sam's head was tilted slightly to the left, his hand hovering over the symbol on the glass.

"Sam?"

"It, uh, looks like hoodoo," Sam said. He turned to look at Dean.

"It _is_ hoodoo," Dean confirmed, hooking a hand around his brother's upper arm. A gentle tug and Sam followed him out to the table. While Dean puttered about finishing up breakfast preparation, his brother watched him intently. "Don't look at me like that."

"Hoodoo?"

"The point is it works." Dean set the oatmeal down on the table, hooked the toe of his boot around the leg of his chair, and sat down. He handed Sam tea in a paper cup. "It's no different than using goofer dust."

If Sam disagreed he didn't say a word, instead he blew on his tea and warmed long fingers around the cup. He made eye contact with Dean over the brim and below his bangs in a clear gesture he wanted to talk about something, but wasn't quite sure where to begin.

"I found where the Schmidts are buried," Sam said in a tentative tone.

Dean couldn't stop the look of stunned surprise as his eyebrows climbed up toward his hairline. "Really? My money was on the remains being in their old house somewhere." He pointed to Sam's oatmeal and gave his brother a significant look.

"Yeah, mine too," Sam agreed. He made a good show of dipping his spoon into the oatmeal and taking an exaggerated bite. After he swallowed it down, he chased it with the tea. "They're buried in paupers' graves in the local cemetery. No name plates, but I have the site numbers."

"Assuming the city kept accurate records," Dean said, hope fading. It was looking more and more like the long shot he'd feared it was going to be.

"There's that," Sam agreed. "I'll double-check against church records after I shower. I ran out of energy last night."

"You were supposed to be sleeping," Dean said, giving Sam the lecture he'd been holding back. Worry twisted in his gut. Sam was going to give him an ulcer. "You need to take care of yourself. Give yourself some time to get your strength back, to - get over what happened."

Sam broke eye contact and made a noise, the rumbling cross between a low growl and clearing his throat that meant he was fighting to contain his emotions. Dean hadn't realized the uniquely Sam sound was missing until now. He added it to his growing list of concerns along with the silent nightmares and nearly motionless sleep.

"I'm fine," Sam said. "Just tired."

"You don't have to lie, or pretend," Dean quickly amended at the look of protest on his brother's face. "Or even talk about it, but don't think you have to hide the truth from me. I'm your brother, Sammy, you can tell me anything."

"Dean…"

Emotions swam behind hazel eyes, but when it became apparent Sam wasn't going to, or was unable to continue, Dean spared him. "It'll be several hours before I can go grave digging. That's plenty of time for showers and more research beforehand. Do you want first crack at the bathroom?"

"I'm going with you," Sam said. His determined tone broached no room for argument, as if that would ever stop Dean.

"No, you're not." Dean said his voice firm. "You can barely walk straight. You're definitely not in any shape to dig out a grave."

"I can still shoot," Sam insisted. "I can sit, hold the shotgun, and have your back."

"And draw the ghosts right to us," Dean said, bluntly. "You know they're attached to you."

"And _you _know that half the time, no matter what they're attached to, spirits are drawn back to their graves. That's what makes digging one out so dangerous. Please, Dean, I can do this."

"Sam…"

"Dean, trust me. I've got your back." And there it was: the earnest puppy-dog look that Dean always teased his brother about. To make matters worse, it nearly always worked.

Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Of course I trust you."

Although Dean knew he'd lost the battle before he'd really even started, damn if Sam's smile wasn't worth the ulcer.

……………………………………….………………….**Supernatural**……………………………………………………….

AN: Only one chapter to go! Thanks to all who stuck with me. I really do appreciate it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Finders Keepers**

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural belongs to the CW, Kripke et al. The love belongs to us.

**Special Thanks: **To both Phx and Geminigrl11 for feedback.

**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

"_I'm going with you," Sam said. His determined tone broached no room for argument, as if that would ever stop Dean._

"_No, you're not." Dean said his voice firm. "You can barely walk straight. You're definitely not in any shape to dig out a grave."_

"_I can still shoot," Sam insisted. "I can sit, hold the shotgun, and have your back."_

"_And draw the ghosts right to us," Dean said, bluntly. "You know they're attached to you."_

"_And you know that half the time, no matter what they're attached to, spirits are drawn back to their graves. That's what makes digging one out so dangerous. Please, Dean, I can do this."_

"_Sam…"_

"_Dean, trust me. I've got your back." And there it was: the earnest puppy-dog look that Dean always teased his brother about. To make matters worse, it nearly always worked._

_Dean placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Of course I trust you."_

_Although Dean knew he'd lost the battle before he'd really even started, damn if Sam's smile wasn't worth the ulcer._

…..…..**Chapter Seven**…

Three hours later they'd both showered, and with the Impala packed and ready to go, Dean was itching to head out. He hesitated, fingers wrapped around the key in the ignition. Sam glanced over from his spot, safely ensconced on the passenger side.

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean said with a shake of his head. No way was he copping to an internal freak-out. He glanced over at his brother, who was freshly shaved and looking more like his normal self. Was it really too much to ask that Sam stay out of harm's way for more than twenty-four hours?

"Nothing?" Sam asked, his forehead bunched with disbelief.

"Yeah, nothing."

Sam tilted his head toward the steering wheel and a smirk crawled across his face. "Are you planning to drive us there?"

"Shaddup," Dean muttered at his brother's chuckle. He twisted the key, looked back, and pulled out of the parking spot, turning out onto the street in moments.

"Ah, not to criticize your driving, but you're headed the wrong direction, Dean," Sam said, jerking his thumb over his left shoulder.

"We're not headed to the cemetery," Dean answered, casually.

Sam sighed. "Dean, we don't have to go over this again, do we?"

"No." When he saw Sam's jaw set and his eyes narrow as he prepared to protest, Dean continued. "We're headed for Bismark first. We need a few things to free you from those spirits before we dig up their graves. Not to mention which, if we went straight there we'd be doing this thing in the daylight." He shook his head. "Not our best plan ever."

"We have a plan?" Sam teased, a small, genuine smile appearing briefly.

"Yeah, course we do," Dean said with a nod.

"Really? 'Cause most of the time it feels like we're just making it up as we go."

"That's a plan," Dean asserted.

Sam puffed a laugh. He winced and wrapped an arm around his torso. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What _are_ we getting in Bismark?"

Dean spared his brother a glance and noted the look of pinched concern. "Nothing weird."

Sam snorted and settled gingerly against the door and seat.

"Okay, nothing more weird than normal," Dean amended. "Just, angelica root, asafetida, sage, you know the usual."

"Promise me something," Sam said, his tone serious.

"What?"

"This thing goes sideways, you don't worry about me. You just do what it takes to stay out of their way." Sam's hand hovered over the sigil Dean had drawn in soap on the passenger window. "You don't know what they're capable of doing."

"Sam…"

"Promise me."

"Okay, sure."

"Really?"

"Sure," Dean said, fixing Sam with a pointed look before refocusing on the road. "While I'm at it, I also promise not to eat any more pie, I'm growing my hair out long like yours, and the next chance I get I'm donating the Impala to a nunnery."

"Now, you're just being an ass," Sam grumbled, turning toward the window.

Dean knew it was to hide whatever emotion was tumbling across his brother's face. "Look, Sam, I know you're annoyed with me, but I can't…"

Sam's head whipped around, Champaign hazels swimming in his pale face. "Annoyed?" His voice was thick and hoarse, but the volume continued to climb. "Try furious. This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was, bro." Dean wanted to pull the car over to the side of the road and have this conversation the way they should, but he wanted to get the spirits off Sam's tail more. "But you can't ask me to just ignore Greta and Harpo if they come at you. I can't do that."

Sam worked his jaw, nostrils flaring.

"Tell me if the situation was reversed that you could," Dean said, softly.

Sam thrust out his chin in defiance, but didn't contradict his brother.

"That's what I thought." He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing gently. "We do this thing the way we always do – watching each other's backs, no matter what."

Sam nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah, okay," he said in a near whisper.

"Good. Glad we cleared that up."

The car was dead silent for five minutes before Sam puffed a laugh. "Nunnery," he muttered under his breath.

Dean chuckled and flicked on the radio. A little road trip before grave digging and things were definitely beginning to feel like normal.

The drive was uneventful, Sam falling asleep only ten minutes in and not waking until Dean slid back into the car after his stop at the only new age, pseudo-apothecary shop in town. Sam cleared his throat, sat up, and blinked hard.

"We here already?" Sam glanced around, trying to orient himself.

"Try finished," Dean corrected. He shook the paper bag in his hand. "Got the stuff to lay some good mojo on you, Sammy."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked and his stomach rumbled. "I think I'm hungry."

The surprise in Sam's tone was enough to make Dean want to throttle the Schmidts based on that fact alone. "Think you could eat real food?" Dean asked.

"Food sounds good."

"Awesome."

It didn't take long to find a drive thru, grab some burgers and a shaker salad, and hit the road. On the way out of town Dean spotted a small park. They had to make the gris-gris bags and a nearly deserted park on an early spring afternoon worked for him.

"Why're we stopping?" Sam asked around a mouthful of fries.

"It's as good a place as any," Dean said, with a shoulder shrug.

Sam nodded in agreement, curled his fingers around the bag of food, and slid out of the car before Dean had a chance to even turn off the engine. By the time he'd grabbed the bag of goodies from the herbal shop and made a quick swing by the trunk for a few things, Sam had nearly finished his slow trek to the picnic table. In a few rapid strides Dean caught up to his brother.

He deposited everything on the table and began laying a line of salt around it. When he finished and sat down, Sam was staring at him with a look of amused annoyance. "What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied softly, before he looked away and tore into the food bag for more fries.

Dean knew full well what the look had meant, but if Sam was willing to let it go without drama, he certainly was. "Toss me a burger, will ya?"

If he hadn't been watching his brother, Dean would have missed the way Sam's face turned a decided color of green when he fished out the hamburger. "What's wrong?"

"Huh?" Sam shook his head as if to clear it and focused on Dean. "Nothing, nothing's wrong."

"You look like you're about ready to hurl." The tone was teasing, but his concern was genuine. He should have remembered his brother's reaction to the hamburger last night, but Dean had chalked it up to how overwhelming everything had to be for Sam. Turned out, there was definitely more to it.

"No, uh, I don't think I was ready for fast food yet," Sam groaned, holding a hand to his stomach.

A grain of truth and a side-step for distraction, it was a classic Sam evasion technique. "There's a salad in there. Maybe that would go over better," Dean suggested. He dug into the paper sack from the quirky herbal shop and laid out three small squares of cloth.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said distractedly. "Need help?"

Dean opened his mouth to dismiss him, but he caught the words in his throat. Sam needed to help with this as much as he needed nourishment. "Hand me the angelica root?"

"Sure."

Dean didn't need any special brother awareness to see the relief on Sam's face. Anything his younger brother wanted to hide from him that much was definitely something Sam shouldn't be hiding at all. "Thanks."

"Don't we need crossroads dirt?" Sam asked, passing him the sage.

Dean's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

"What?" Sam placed a sprig of eucalyptus on each of the cloths. "We made similar ones with Missouri, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." He remembered being overwhelmed and begging Dad to help, going upstairs and finding Sam nearly unconscious with a cord wrapped around his throat, and seeing Mom's spirit before she sacrificed herself to save them. All in all as therapeutic as going home was, even after all this time it still wouldn't make his top ten list of favorite hunts. He nodded towards the bag. "There's graveyard dirt in there. We're improvising."

Sam smiled. "That's a plan."

"Now you're talking."

Dean paused from the task at hand when a family with two young girls walked by with their picnic gear. One of the children was talking animatedly about her cat, Fluffernutter, and the cute backward flip off the table he'd done. The mother was nodding, but not paying much attention. The girl's pigtails reminded Dean of Shelly.

"I looked for you for days," Dean said, his voice rough. "I tried everything I could think of, Bobby and Rufus put out feelers, but you'd just – disappeared."

"Dean."

Dean shook his head and looked everywhere but at his brother. "I wasn't sure I could find you. I was so damn worried, Sammy."

He caught sight of Sam nodding out of his peripheral vision. "I'm sorry."

"I wouldn't have found you at all if it weren't for Shelly and her stupid missing cat." Sam gagged and Dean whipped his head around. "Sam?"

Dean scrambled over the tabletop and then sat down on it, placing a hand on the curve of his brother's back. Sam vomited the meager contents of his stomach and continued to gag and retch until finally, he coughed and spit out a wad of mucous.

"I'm okay," Sam assured him between deep breaths. "Just give me a minute."

Dean handed his brother a bottle of water and then slid off the table. He turned to face Sam and placed his hands on the table invading his brother's personal space. "No offense, Sam, but that's bullshit."

Sam stopped chugging water. He spit the last mouthful onto the ground and sat, head hanging between his knees, shaggy hair obscuring his face. "Dean, I," Sam started. He paused, cleared his throat, and then sat up, brushing long bangs back across his head. "It's no big deal."

"Great," Dean said, with a flippant tone, "then it shouldn't be any _big deal_ to tell me why you yakked up the only real meal you've eaten in eleven days."

"Not the only meal," Sam whispered.

Dean waited quietly for his brother to continue. He knew the isolation, the beatings and the unwanted touches weren't the only secrets Sam had from his time with the Schmidts. Hopefully whatever he was about to divulge was one of the last ones so he could start to move past it. Sam was resilient. He'd bounce back if life would give him a moment's peace to do so.

"I guess they couldn't exactly run down to the store and buy food," Sam said with a snort. "So, they made do."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did they do?"

Sam swiveled to face him, his eyes wide and earnest. "I swear, Dean, I had no idea. It was dark and I couldn't see."

Dean placed a hand on his brother's shoulder mindful of the welts on both his chest and back. He squeezed gently to ground Sam.

"Shelly's not getting her cat back," Sam finished in a rush, dipping his head again.

_They fed him the damn cat! _Dean clenched his free fist and exhaled in a powerful rush. It could have been so much worse he supposed. Not that it made it any better for Sam, and it didn't stop the surge of disgust or the renewed anger and outright hatred he had for Gertie and Tim.

"It'll be okay, Sam." Dean resisted the urge to chuck his brother's chin to get him to look up.

The shaggy head shook and Sam puffed a laugh. He lifted his face offering Dean a genuine smile, wide enough his dimples showed.

"What?" Dean asked, his voice clearly conveying his confusion.

Sam chuckled, leaned back, and set his water down on the table.

"What?"

"Dude, I could be bleeding out my eyes, I _have _been bleeding out my eyes, and you always tell me it'll be okay."

Dean fixed him with an intense gaze, his voice lowered with conviction. "I always mean it."

"I know," Sam said, quietly. His eyes fell to the table and he picked up the abandoned hamburger. "You should eat."

"I will if you will," Dean offered. He moved back around to the other side and took a seat in front of the cloths he'd laid out earlier. The spring breeze had scattered some of the herbs, but it wouldn't take much to fix it.

"I don't think I can," Sam admitted, moving to one end of the table, presumably to avoid the mess he'd left on the ground.

"Just try the salad," Dean encouraged. "Otherwise, I embarrassed myself ordering that rabbit food for nothing."

"Wouldn't want it to be for nothing," Sam replied, his tone light. A quick shake of the cup and he dipped his fork in for the first bite. "I've been thinking about the salt and burn tonight."

"What about it?" Dean paused in his efforts to give his brother his full attention.

Sam looked at Dean and held up his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun. "I couldn't find any more information on the exact location of their graves. There're thirty-two other pauper sites and there's no way we'll be able to dig up another one, more or less know which other one to dig up before it's too late."

"We're doing this thing," Dean insisted, tapping the table with each syllable to accent his conviction. He dug into the paper sack and pulled out the sunglasses he'd purchased for Sam at the herbal shop. The plastic rims were actually some type of biodegradable potato material. He'd almost been surprised to find out they weren't made from hemp.

Sam took the proffered sunglasses and slipped them on, the tight lines around his eyes relaxing. "Yeah but," he started.

"Are you telling me you'll be able to verify where they're buried if we wait?" Dean interrupted.

"No, but."

"How sure are you that you have the right spot?"

"About ninety percent, but," Sam tried again.

"Then we do this tonight." Dean carefully tied the three bags with red string.

"Dean," Sam protested.

"Don't look so constipated," Dean said, cutting him off. He ignored the look of disdain his younger brother tossed him. "It's all good. Sam, your guesses are worth more than most people's facts. If you're ninety percent sure, I'm not worried at all."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched in a would-be smile and a light blush colored his cheeks.

"And don't think I haven't noticed all you've done is play with that salad," Dean reprimanded, waggling a finger in the general direction of the shaker cup. "Not that I blame you, but you have to eat something."

"Yeah, I know." Sam ran his hands over the gray, weathered picnic tabletop. "I just," he paused and then continued in a near whisper. "I'm not okay."

"Sam, it's barely been a day," Dean said earnestly. He leaned forward, bridging some of the distance between he and his brother. "No one except you expects you to be okay."

Sam scowled, pulling loose a splinter of the table. "It's just, I don't," he started, finally making eye contact. "I don't want you to think…" his voice trailed off again.

"I don't." Dean waited until he received a nod of acceptance from his brother. "We're taking this one step at a time. Waste the son of bitches who did this and then we take a few days off, maybe head to Jim's old cabin or something."

"The cabin?"

"Heck yeah," Dean said with a smile, hoping he could carry Sam along for the ride. Dean wanted his brother to cut himself a little slack. "It's too early for fishing, but it's still pretty nice up there this time of year."

"Dean, we haven't been there in years," Sam said, shaking his head. "For all we know it's been sold by the church."

"It hasn't," Dean said, his voice rang with surety. He nodded towards the salad. "Finish up and we'll head out."

"You too," Sam insisted, pointing to the paper wrapped burger growing cold on the table.

"I think me and the burger are going to take a walk. I need my knife to finish these bags," Dean said, gesturing to the herb-stacked cloths in front of him.

Sam raised an eyebrow and gave him a knowing look. "You mean the knife you have in the front, left, inside pocket of your jacket?"

Dean narrowed his eyes and started to form a response when he decided subterfuge wasn't going to get him anywhere. He sighed, forcefully expelling air with a helpless gesture of defeat.

"It'll be fine," Sam said, his long reach easily extending to the hamburger in question. He shook it insistently in front of Dean. "Please, just eat."

Dean grinned, grabbed the burger, and dug in. Sam smiled back, sneaking peeks at him over the top of his hippy, knockoff Ray-Ban's. Yeah, Sammy would definitely be okay.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sam had needed the break at the park more than he'd known at the time. He genuinely felt better, more relaxed, and definitely surer of himself than he had since his rescue from the Schmidts. He supposed it wasn't saying much considering it had only been a day, but he was taking the small victory for what it was.

Sam braced his back carefully against the rough bark of the massive elm tree. The light of the nearly full moon allowed him to easily make out his brother's shadowy outline from this distance. The circle of salt glittered in the silvery moonlight and the smooth metal of the rifle felt cold against Sam's leg where it rested.

Dean looked up from digging, casting perhaps his tenth glance in his direction. The first coffin had been unearthed and he was working steadily on the second. They'd gone in with the plan of digging up both graves before salting and burning either of the Schmidts. The brothers knew once one of the duo disappeared in a flash of flames, the other would definitely be hot on the Winchester's tails.

Sam tensed, readying to react if something happened while his brother was busy watching out for him instead of watching out for the spirits. He would have preferred to be closer, but sometimes the trick was knowing which battles to wage and which were a lost cause. He was lucky to be here and not sitting in the motel room because if Dean had really wanted to push it, it wasn't as if Sam could put up much of a fight right now.

A northern breeze shot up over the hill and straight down Sam's collar. He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter with one hand and fingering the sachet his pocket with the other. A quick glance at the salt reassured him the granules were intact. Movement caught in his peripheral vision and Sam's head whipped up, eyes searching the darkness. There, over Dean's shoulder, was the pale outline of Gertie.

"Dean, drop!" Sam bellowed, as he lifted the shotgun.

A soldier's instincts had Dean on his belly in the nearly exhumed grave by the time Sam had his weapon sighted. The blast from the shotgun was normally something he didn't even give a second thought. Tonight it ripped agony through his chest from the recoil, but his aim was true and Gertie dissipated in a swirl of vapors.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam shouted. He didn't lower his weapon, waiting for a reassurance from his brother.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, his face appearing above the grass line. "I broke through the coffin when I landed." He pulled himself out of the grave and walked over to the bag for the salt. "Good thing they've been dead for awhile," he called over his shoulder.

Sam grimaced, nose wrinkling in disgust. "You better hurry. It looks like they've figured out we're here."

As if summoned, Tim materialized directly between the brothers. There was no way to fire without possibly hitting Dean before the spirit had time to react. "Dean!"

Sam stumbled out of the salt circle, hoping to either lure Tim away or gain a better shooting angle. He hadn't counted on the sheer speed of the disembodied spirit. The ghost was behind him before he had a chance to register the movement. A cold arm wrapped around Sam's neck squeezing his throat mercilessly.

"_We've missed you,"_ Tim whispered with a sibilant hiss in Sam's ear.

Sparks danced in Sam's waning vision, but he held tight to his weapon. His chest heaved with a horrible wheezing sound and he heard Dean call his name over the blood pounding in his ears. Orange flames licked his vision and the pressure on his neck disappeared in a rush of angry wind. He fell to the damp ground and his knees sank into the spongy sod.

"Dean," Sam rasped, lifting his head in time to see Gertie appear once again behind his brother.

Dean whirled around, but Gertie was faster. In a blur of muted color Dean went airborne, arms and legs pin wheeling as he flew nearly twenty feet before connecting with a monolithic headstone. Stone cracked and groaned, ultimately giving way under the force of the impact.

"Dean!" Sam called, his strained voice hoarse.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sam fired the shotgun. The spirit's essence swirled as it disappeared for a second time. As much as he wanted to check on his brother, Sam fought against the urge and headed for the second grave. The bitter wind bit into his skin and he spared a glance at Dean's prone form. He needed to hurry.

Literally ten agonizing steps from Gertie's final resting place, her spirit reappeared, a crooked smile on her translucent face. She reached up to stroke his face with the back of an impossibly cold hand. _"You have to come home with me now. It'll be so lonely without Tim."_

Sam recoiled, taking a tiny step backward. His skin itched where she'd touched him and his heart thudded painfully against his chest. "I'm not going anywhere with you," he hissed.

"_Once your brother is gone, you'll be lonely without me, too." _Gertie ran her fingers through Sam's hair on her way past him and slowly drift-walked toward Dean, twisting to glance occasionally back at Sam.

Anger replaced fear. She'd used Dean against him before and he was so damn tired of being afraid, of being touched, of not being himself, and there was _no way_ he was letting her hurt his brother. Sam stumbled forward and grabbed the salt canister in shaking hands. He heard Dean moan even over the roaring of blood in his ears and the rush of wind all around.

Sam poured salt on the remaining corpse and followed it with an accelerant chaser. He'd just finally managed to dig the lighter out of his pocket when Gertie called to him. _"Sammy…"_

Sam whirled around, the now burning lighter hidden behind him from the spirit's view. She was holding Dean in one hand over her head and his body moved sluggishly in an attempt to wriggle out of her grip. Sam couldn't see the color of his brother's face, but the harsh pants of breath were enough to make him stop cold.

"_If you aren't a good little pet, you'll be eating brother dear for your next meal."_

Something that sounded like "bitch" wheezed from between Dean's lips and for once, Sam couldn't agree more. The corner of his mouth twitched in a humorless grin. "Maybe you haven't heard, but we don't swing that way."

With a flick of his wrist, he dropped the lighter into the open grave. The whoosh of flames preceded the heat that licked at his ankles. Gertie disappeared with a shriek and Dean dropped boneless to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam staggered to his brother, falling to his knees by Dean's crumpled form. Sam grasped his brother by his jacket collar and pulled Dean upright ignoring his screaming ribs. "Dean?"

Dean coughed weakly once and then with more force. He patted Sam on the shoulder to signal he was okay and Sam released him, sitting back on his heels. "Are you okay?" Dean rasped.

Sam nodded, a genuine grin on his face this time. "I'm good. Are you?"

Dean nodded in return and slowly attempted to climb to his feet. Sam grasped him by the elbow and they supported each other to their feet. They stood there for a moment before a wicked grin spread across Dean's face.

"What?"

"Maybe you haven't heard, but we don't swing that way?" Dean didn't even try to hide the laughter in his voice.

Sam punched him lightly in the arm. "Shut up."

It didn't take long to pack up their supplies and once Dean had Sam resting peacefully in the car despite his protests, the graves were refilled before the sun crested the horizon. Dean slid into the driver's seat smelling of smoke and dirt. "To the cabin?" Sam asked as Dean started the engine.

"We have one stop to make first," Dean said, "in town."

Sam tossed him a questioning look, but didn't ask as they headed back to town. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget to call Bobby."

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. "Thanks."

Sam smiled briefly and then turned to gaze at the shadowed landscape. As sunlight slowly illuminated the car and the heater warmed his toes, Sam half-listened to the animated conversation between his brother and Bobby, and he knew he was finally on his way back to normal.

-0-0-

Sam had fallen asleep again, but he woke when Dean opened the passenger door and crouched down beside him. "I need you to hold something for me," Dean said.

Sam's brow crinkled in question, but he held out his hands. A warm, tiny bundle of fur was placed in his palms. "Dean?"

"I promised," was all he said in reply. Dean stood and carefully shut the door.

Sam swallowed down a lump in his throat. A pitiful mewl had him looking tentatively at the kitten. His heart thudded, but he pulled the kitten in closer to his chest with minutely trembling hands and scratched it softly behind the ears. When his brother slid back into the car Sam turned to face him. "Dean?"

"You can do it, Sammy, and that little girl needs a new cat," Dean said, answering both questions posed in his name alone.

Sam sat back against the seat and a sandpaper tongue gently washed his thumb. He smiled at the kitten and then over at his brother whose attention was seemingly focused solely on the road. Sam petted the kitten as he watched the scenery go by. He _could_ do this and if he ever doubted himself, he had an awesome brother who made sure he never forgot.

_Fin_

…**..….Supernatural…..**

AN: This chapter was, embarrassingly, two-thirds of the way finished for the last five months. I finally, finally got my writing muse back and completed it!

Thanks to all who read and especially those who came back after so long to read the conclusion!


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